


Misora Massacre

by K (Thiswasmydesign)



Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms, Death Note (Anime & Manga), Death Note: Another Note, Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases, Birthday Massacre, Blood Kink, Brutal Murder, Cannibalism, Dark Naomi, Everyone else!L, F/M, Gen, Hannibal!Misora, Lemons, Murder, Murder Kink, Murder Mystery, Mutually relieved boredom, NSFW, Not technically non-con but extremely close at times (if B wasn't so messed up it would be), Psychopathology & Sociopathy, That should so be a tag, Will!Beyond, and chains, and the freezer in the corner, beware the archive warnings, come see my basement, ignore the knives, it's a hannibal AU it's meant to make you flinch at times, lemony murder & murdery lemons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-20 07:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13712520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thiswasmydesign/pseuds/K
Summary: When Naomi was given the nickname Misora Massacre by her colleagues at the FBI, the title had struck just a little too close to home. If only they knew what sort of monster was living right under their nose...When Misora didn't kill a thirteen year old murderer, she had been placed on a leave of absence, but when L calls to request her assistance with a case, she is amused by the opportunity to investigate a killer who looks to have taken plenty of inspiration from her own murders.A Death Note - Hannibal (TV) crossover; helpful to have read Death Note Another Note and to have seen Hannibal, but there's enough explained that it isn't completely necessary - a little awareness of Death Note the anime is probably all you actually need.Completely separate from my Another Path series.





	1. Misora

Naomi Misora was not prone to fits of panic, no matter how many times she pretended to fit the role that the other FBI agents expected of her. Her status as a short Japanese female, working in what most considered to be a man’s job, was a convincing enough role to hide anything else that she wanted from others. The FBI agents she worked with judged and discriminated against her enough to make any act of weakness believable.

FBI agents whose names and contact details she had stored away in her rotary card index for future reference.

And future recipes.

However, when the agents had started to call her Misora Massacre, she had to have at least some degree of concern. Despite their general level of incompetence, had they finally worked something out?

The murderer in her last case investigation had been a thirteen-year-old child. She was sure, if she had taken the shot and actually killed him, that the disciplinary action taken would have been a hell of a lot worse than a few weeks of suspension. She would have risked an in-depth investigation including psychiatric profiling, something she could not afford. She could here hear the misguided labels now; psychopath, narcissist, and plenty more besides. She had lied her way through FBI profiling before, but each time was an additional risk she should not take if she could avoid it, no matter how skilful her lies.

So, during her leave of absence, when she was bored as hell, she flicked through her card roller, knowing full well that if she were to kill more whilst she was on a period of leave that even the incompetent agents she worked with in the FBI could possibly trace it back to her. She had to be careful, especially with Raye Pember sniffing around. The man was a naïve idiot, but he was like a dog with a bone, and if he ever suspected anything she knew he would not let it go easily.

She was a patient woman; she could wait for her next kill – weeks, months, even years if she had to. That didn’t mean she didn’t miss the feel of blood on her hands, the delight of the terror in the eyes of her victims as they realised that their torturous end was at the hands of that sweet, innocent looking ‘little Japanese woman’. It didn’t mean that she wasn’t allowed to be tempted, especially when another killer was indulging so delightfully in her favourite pass time, right there in the centre of her territory.

Three murders, Wara Ningyo left at the scene. Locked rooms. Hidden messages, too, unless she was much mistaken. Fodder for a detective story. The corpses – mutilated, not very artistic like her own killings but clever and delicious all the same. She was very curious about the arm missing from the third crime scene – did she have a copy cat?

She had to admit he was doing fairly well if so. The police seemed stumped, they hadn’t even connected the killings with her own. They were more a homage rather than a direct copy. Similar enough to grasp her attention; different enough to show that they were not her own. She wondered if the third would be the last murder – to have been masked by the four Wara Ningyo, and in reference to her own killings. She did prefer to kill in sounders of three.

Living vicariously through her copy cat was all that she could allow herself for now, and so Misora had been following the case with avid interest as it progressed.

On the morning she woke and found a message in her inbox, from L himself, she was surprised indeed – it wasn’t something anyone would expect, never mind when suspended from the FBI. Of course, she could not turn him down, even if she had wanted to, so she called the number as instructed and broke through the firewalls.

L was renowned to be the world’s greatest detective. Misora concluded that he was arrogant, displaying classic characteristics of being a sociopath himself even through their limited interaction, and Misora played her part so well that she was sure not even L in his arrogant intelligence would see through the human suit and to the monster that roiled beneath. She played the fool; or at least, less intelligent than her true self, and pretended to be unaware of the case, just to elicit from L his own interpretations as much as she could attain.

Why was L getting involved now? It was almost rude; he had never, ever shown any interest in the LA Monster – in her own killings. It was well known to everyone in the FBI that he was usually willing to get involved if more than ten people were dead, and even in her sounders when the bodies were meant to be found she had killed more than twice that, not to mention the ones she had killed when her freezer supplies were running low and had disposed of in neater, less messy ways so that they were not found. Her killings had been exactly the sort of case L should involve himself in, but he had always refused; why, then, was he interested in this copy cat?

Still, Misora agreed to help. If nothing else, it would allow her to get close to the scenes with a good excuse and relieve her boredom from being suspended.

It felt like an invasion of her privacy as she approached the first crime scene, to have to call L and keep him on the phone line. Usually if she had the opportunity to assess a murder scene, she would be amongst perhaps a dozen other investigators but each would be separately working away, doing their own thing whilst she was free to investigate and admire on her own. Having L’s arrogance on the phone nattering away at her grated at her patience; she didn’t need or want him there, but to admit that would be to remove a large part of her mask that hid the monster from the world, so she had to put up with him.

L told her to look for a clue, a hidden message that the police had missed. Well, if there was one, of course the police would miss it. In comparison to Misora, they were dense as bricks. She took in the obvious message first; the Wara Ningyo, or at least the holes in the wall left by where they had been nailed; four, three, two… she idly discussed this with L, testing him by suggesting there would be five murders.

“No,” L had surprised her. “The third was the last.”

Her breath caught; so, he had recognised the similarity to her own killings. The Wara Ningyo had not masked that; L thought that there would only be three murders, did he?

“There will not be another,” L had continued, with his inevitable arrogance. “Not with me involved.”

Ah, so it was just arrogance, Misora considered. L’s personality grated on her; he would not be so arrogant if he knew who he was truly speaking to. His arrogance was not deserved if she could so easily pull the wool over the great detective’s eyes.

She pushed him, by playing the fool, and he revealed that there was another piece to the puzzle; a crossword sent to the police before the killings began. He bragged about having been the only one able to solve the puzzle, and pointed out that the solution was the address of the building in which Misora was now standing. Misora would have liked to take a look herself, if only to prove that he was not the only one who could provide the solution.

At last, L ended the call, allowing her to explore with more freedom.

The room was altered since the crime, the body and the Wara Ningyo removed. The scanty amount of furniture was testament to this being an organised victim as well as an organised killer; and a clean killer, too, to have wiped every finger print from the scene. Misora wondered just how much had been contaminated already by the police presence.

Her copy cat wanted to be caught; or at least, he wanted to be chased. That much was certain if he had sent the crossword puzzle to the police. Misora was disappointed; the killings were enough of a statement themselves; why should a killer need the validation of others to make this worthwhile?

There were serial killers out there who felt guilty for their actions, who wanted to be caught. Had this killer been frightened of what he would do, and in a fit of conscience tried to prevent the murders before they could occur? No, that wouldn’t be the reason to send a puzzle. This was a game to him then?

Misora scowled; as much as she liked this copy cat’s way of doing things, she was not delighted that he would leave clues. It would make it harder to excuse it to L if she tried to ensure that the killer could walk free when he was leaving a trail of breadcrumbs, no matter how obscure, to taunt the police.

She searched the room, coming up empty; there were no clues present. Taking out the photograph of the crime scene as it had been when found by the police, she studied it.

The body was the obvious clue. It had been mutilated, the cuts cleanly made before death. He must have been drugged; disappointing. This killer did not yet know the pleasure of seeing the fear in the eyes of their victim, seeing the terror and the realisation that they were going to die.

Letters. There were letters written on the body; the sort that did not make any sense immediately, but given time she was certain she would work out the code.

She would make a cup of tea whilst she thought, she decided, but first she had one more place in the room to check; childish, but necessary to be satisfied she had completed her search adequately.

Under the bed, where a hand reached out and grasped her ankle, like a thing out of a horror movie.

She was still for a moment before she realised she should, as Naomi Misora the FBI agent, have been startled by this; she pulled away, playing off her moment of calm as having frozen in shock.

“What… no, who are you?” she demanded, trying to sound frightened. She was unarmed, but she had confidence in her abilities; there was no reason for her to be afraid. Whoever was under the bed, however…

The man raised his head and slowly stood up, his black hair falling forwards over wide bulging eyes. He was thin and tall, but his back was curved so he stood shorter than Misora. He was wearing a white top and faded jeans, and he looked completely unaffected by her presence. Good; let him think that she wasn’t a threat from the start.

“Nice to meet you,” he bowed slightly. “Please, call me Ryuzaki.”


	2. Rue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal!Misora meets Ryuzaki (Beyond Birthday) and decides what to do about him.

Misora was settled sipping her tea, observing the strange creature that identified himself as Rue Ryuzaki, un-private detective (unlicensed, no doubt). Her posture was perfect, while he was folded in a strange contorted crouch in his chair, a position which could surely not be comfortable.

Ryuzaki was unnatural and strange, his every movement looking designed to shock and yet he did not look for a reaction from her; perhaps he intended to be unsettling but if that were the case he was so assured in the effect of his odd movements that he did not need to check to be sure. They prodded back and forth; little bits of information revealed, lies and truths intermingled. Misora told him she was a detective, too, rather than an FBI agent. She kept her mask up, the one of a weak and only functionally intelligent young woman, testing the ground on which she was treading.

“We can cooperate!” Ryuzaki had exclaimed at her when she had told him she had also been hired to investigate the case. The nerve of the man reminded her a little of L’s arrogance. For a brief moment she wondered if this was actually L, here to test her abilities. She would not be at all surprised if the detective was more involved with his cases than the usual investigators working with him realised.

Her suspicions were raised again when Ryuzaki proceeded to lie to her about why he was under the bed, though it did make her laugh when he suggested that he had hidden in case she were a dangerous character, like the killer, but suggested that his hopes were in vain. Oh, if only he knew…

She humoured him a while longer, or thought that she was humouring him, prepared to get rid of him (though she would keep the business card, of course, on the off chance the contact information was correct). However, he surprised her, pulling out the crossword puzzle that L had mentioned to her before, and she took the copy from him, solving it in her mind. It was indeed difficult, but she had it solved within mere moments, agreeing that the answer L and Ryuzaki both reached was accurate. It led here.

“You’re sure that the answer shows this address?” she asked, masking her deduction. Ryuzaki was looking at her strangely; well, more strangely at least. She wondered briefly what he had seen that made him look that way.

He offered that she could keep the puzzle to solve in her own time, rattled off some of the same deductions as L – Misora correcting the likelihood in her mind that Ryuzaki could indeed be L – and collected strawberry jam from the fridge. Misora didn’t hide her disgust as he ate it straight from his fingers and then slurped it from the jar.

Whilst she had appreciation for less than typical eating habits, that was simply disgusting.

Ryuzaki continued to try to shock her when they returned to the scene – he had bought his way into the investigation with that crossword puzzle, even if he wasn’t L. He scrambled around the floor on all fours, requesting that she join him. Well, there was no way that she was going to do that, even with the human suit in place, so she refused, keeping her back straight and walking into the room properly.

After a few minutes of allowing him to expend his energy – if he chose to act like a small child, crawling around on the floor like that, she would treat him like one – she pulled out the picture of the body she had been looking at before he had been found under the bed. She showed him the letters on the body; not letters, she had realised whilst Ryuzaki had been eating his jam, but numbers – Roman numerals.

She was testing him, of course, watching his reaction. He needed prompting to spot the letters, or at least, he did not acknowledge the letters until she prompted him to. There was a certain degree of recognition in his eyes at the sight of the photo, the sort of thing that would be easy to brush off as him having a copy as well, but it was more than that, and he tried to limit it. Misora could see the lie.

Easily, he came to the same deduction as her, and the speed with which he interpreted the numbers was fairly impressive even to Misora. It seemed Ryuzaki was more capable than his odd behaviour could hide.

It was about time that she should check in with L, and besides, she wanted to hear his voice again through the voice filter; needed to work out whether it was the same as that of Ryuzaki. She excused herself, heading in to the bathroom to make the call.

She explained the presence of Ryuzaki, almost convinced that he was L when L asked whether the man was ‘cool’. However, if that had been the case and L wanted to pretend he was not Ryuzaki, he would not have asked the question. No, this was something else. L must know exactly who Ryuzaki was, but they were not the same person. The more she spoke to L, the more certain she was of the conclusion. A part of L’s team then, perhaps? There were always rumours that L was not one person, but a group working together under the one letter title.

What was important, of course, was that Ryuzaki was not the L she was hired by, and so she could continue to work out who else he could be.

Ryuzaki was waiting outside the door when Misora left, not bothering to flush the unused toilet as she did; she wanted to see his response, fairly sure he would comment on it and he did; he recommended flushing the next time, as a cover story. She played it off, pretending to be flustered, but studied Ryuzaki intently out of the corner of her gaze.

He intended to shock, but with every strange move he betrayed his intelligence, and made himself more interesting.

Misora decided she had found a more interesting game to occupy her time than to figure out the solution to these three murders; she wanted the solution to Ryuzaki, instead.

Before she skinned him alive for making her watch him eating that jam, of course.

She stepped back, no longer pushing forward the conclusions from the roman numerals they had found, and allowed Ryuzaki to lead, happy to follow to see his process. He caught on quickly, leading her through the conclusions rather than claiming the solutions for himself. It would have been neatly done and masterful, if she had been anyone other than Misora; instead, as he played her, she worked out every step, every move that he made, and added her conclusions to her growing understanding of Ryuzaki.

By the end of the day, they had found the map to the next murder victim written in the pages of a book and encoded with the roman numerals on the body. They had arranged to meet the next day at the home of the second murder victim, and Naomi had reached several conclusions.

First, and most importantly, Ryuzaki was almost certainly the killer.

It was the only conclusion that made sense. The game he was playing was not intended for the police; it was a chase he was leading for L. The killer would not be able to resist going back to meet with L’s representative, would most likely help whatever agent L chose to catch up since they had fallen so behind in solving the killings.

Ryuzaki was not all that abnormal, in those aspects. Plenty of killers thought they could outsmart those trying to catch them.

However, Ryuzaki was good enough, intelligent enough, that she actually thought he might have a chance, if L had picked anyone but her for the role in the case.

Second, was that Ryuzaki was fascinating.

He was abnormal; she had no doubt, but he was also abnormally abnormal, much of what he did was for effect. The man beneath would not be normal if he did not play it up to shock her, but he was very definitely pretending at being more strange than he actually was.

She was intrigued; she wanted to know what lay beyond the mask of Ryuzaki.

Third, she considered him to be a worthy copycat.

Combined with how interesting she found him, Misora was suspecting that she might even be willing to let Ryuzaki see a little of the LA Monster beneath her FBI agent mask, if he continued to prove to be so fascinating.

She would meet with him at the second crime scene the next day. For now, she had food to prepare.

She wondered if he might be convinced to share if she made them both lunch for the next day.

She suspected he would probably just eat his strawberry jam all the same.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Misora was assaulted.

It was almost laughable; to think that someone would try to mug _her_ in an alleyway. The human suit she wore was just too convincing sometimes; but, she had sprung into action, her capoeira skills frightening off her assailant without ever actually managing to strike a blow.

She was almost disappointed; almost, because if she had managed to wound her attacker, if she had seen blood, she would have been sorely tempted to go further. This copycat had sent the blood pumping; set off the temptation to kill again, the long elastic pulling tight, ready to be released. She could not kill, not so close to the crime scene, not with L watching her every move from a distance. She would have every opportunity later, once this was through.

Ryuzaki would provide enough of a distraction for now. The man was waiting for her at the crime scene, and she would be late now since the fight in the alleyway had derailed her usually perfect time keeping.

He was indeed there waiting for her, and she wasted very little time in prodding at him with her questions, looking for a weak point whilst making them sound innocent. The locked room brought a rise out of him; it seemed he did not want to investigate that topic overly much. Of course that meant that it held a vital clue to solving the case, so Misora devoted her brain power to solving the puzzle whilst continuing the conversation with Ryuzaki.

She was distracted enough that she was not paying attention when Ryuzaki made them coffee a little later. Her palate was delicate and precise, but it did not need to be to find the coffee-syrup concoction that Ryuzaki served to be disgusting; she spat it out as quickly as she had taken a sip, disgusting herself with her bad manners.

“I feel like I drank dirt,” she complained at him, keeping the true murderous bite out of her voice. She pictured his murder again; perhaps she would remove those long crafty fingers one by one, and then the arms, allowing him to bleed out then connecting the removed pieces carefully together and crafting them into antlers for his head? A part of her felt like this could be a deliberate trick, that Ryuzaki had served her the terrible liquid simply to see her reaction, as she had been testing him. How much had he worked out so far?

Ryuzaki seemed impatient, after that. He pushed, forcing her to a conclusion she made herself deliberately slow to reach; the names of the victims so far – b.b. – q.q. - b.b. Written as lower case like that, the same shape but upside down, as the second victim had been positioned face down. A relatively pointless conclusion, even with the others that followed – Misora knew the clue here was again going to be in the mutilation, in the girl’s lack of eyes.

She idly flicked through a photo album as Ryuzaki pressed her, and, in boredom, she created the opening for Ryuzaki to suggest that if the message would only lead to the third victim, maybe they should skip this crime scene and move on to the next.

“After all, our goal is to prevent the fourth murder as well as solve the case.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, keeping her eyes on the photo album but watching him. So, he did intend a fourth murder; there was no deception in his voice when he suggested that there would be one. That was the point of this particular move in the game, to see whether she was wasting her time on the investigation entirely. If he didn’t intend a fourth murder, she might as well just get rid of him now, since he would be boring very quickly if he had finished.

“But it just feels so submissive… like we’re following his lead,” she led him back to the investigation. She had no intention of moving crime scenes just yet. “I mean we might miss an important clue to his identity if we skip this room. Even if there isn’t some clear evidence, we might get a feeling or a hunch that will help us out later. I agree that preventing the fourth murder is important, but if we focus on that too much, we’ll lose the chance to get aggressive, to take control of the situation.”

Misora wondered if she had strayed too close to the edge with that one; the monster peeking its head beyond the FBI agent, but Ryuzaki didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy trying for shock value again.

“Don’t worry, I’m a top.”

“A top?” Misora bit back a laugh. Oh, goodness, Ryuzaki was too much fun.

“An aggressive top,” Ryuzaki said. “I have never once been submissive. One of the few things I can boast about. I have never even been submissive to a traffic signal.”

Misora was intrigued; she could admit it. This strange but fascinating man had managed to surprise her again, and so suggestively too. Her copycat killer.

“You really should,” she suggested to him, allowing him to presume that she meant about the traffic signals even as she considered beds, blindfolds, gags and chains, blood pooling in the hollows left by those bony collar bones as he whimpered or pleaded for mercy.

“Never.”

He was so adamant about it, too. Misora was unable to hide the darkness and temptation in her eyes as she pictured all the ways she could bring this arrogant creature to his knees. So that he would not notice she focused on the photo album; the pictures of the young teenage girl instantly cooling any ardour that had risen. Hell, she was contentedly a monster but not that kind of monster.

Suitably motivated to do so, she allowed Ryuzaki to lead her to obvious conclusions, taking her time to conclude the messages left for them at the crime scene.

They agreed to meet at the third victim’s home three days later. That would give Misora plenty of time to consider how she would take this forward; what she was going to do with Ryuzaki, when the case was concluded. Would she give this intriguing man to L as a captive, or would she see just how far he would be willing to extend the promise he was showing her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon divergent from next chapter onwards.


	3. Defiance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The BB murder case ends; the Monster is awakened

L wanted her to be careful.

She had been reluctant to tell him about the attack in the first place, the one that had happened in the alleyway, but had concluded that if she did not tell him and he found out later there could be a problem. She was happy that her mask was working, even against L, but the insistence that she not use back alleys or place herself at risk was grating.

“I’m fine, L. And I can take care of myself. I’ve trained in martial arts.”

It was her attacker who should be afraid.

“Have you? In what? Karate? Or judo?”

“Capoeira.”

L had been surprised, and she had been pleased to be able to make him lost for words without having to reveal anything about herself that would make him suspect anything sinister; the small victory motivated her well for the day, even when L decided to surprise her right back (clearly not happy to not have the last word) and tell her that the killer was known to him and represented by a single letter – B.

B- Ryuzaki – had been late to the third crime scene, quite likely a power play. Misora didn’t engage him in it, having started and completed her investigations before he arrived. With her conclusions primed, she was ready for anything Ryuzaki could throw at her.

Given the two previous crime scenes had the message indicated by the bodies, they started right away with the crime scene photograph, but not until Misora had explained her conclusion that the next murder would not occur for another three days; the only conclusion she had not reached on her own, but instead with the aid of L. It was all about 13; 13, written sloppily perhaps, being indicative of B. The conclusion was unimportant, not really a clue other than to tell them the date that the next death was to be prevented or expected, depending on what Misora decided.

“I’m a corpse,” Ryuzaki laid out on the floor later after Misora had left to get coffee. Another shock tactic; meant to prompt her to see a conclusion she had already made. “I have become a corpse. I cannot answer. I am dead.”

Misora scowled at the eccentric murderer, both irritated and amused by the act.

If Ryuzaki were a corpse, she could picture many better, more artful ways to arrange those long, thin limbs of his.

She wondered if she could make the cuts through the limbs clean enough to give him eight of them and make him into the spider he sometimes resembled when he was crawling about on the floor.

Misora was not a clumsy person, but as she stepped over Ryuzaki to take the tray to the table, she made quite a performance of stepping on his stomach, just for the sake of it.

Except it wasn’t just for the sake of it; Ryuzaki declared that he was never submissive with anything (even a traffic signal) but laying himself out on the floor like that had left him vulnerable. Also, there was a part of her that was intrigued to observe his response to pain.

He made a show of complaining about it, indeed, but there was no real recoil there; Misora delighted in that. Ryuzaki – B - had just increased his chances of surviving his silly little detective war.

After that they were able to get on with their deductions, Ryuzaki encouraging her to lay down on the floor and play dead, too. Understanding the different perspective it should give her of the room and deciding to let her dignified pose go this once, she complied.

“The killer’s message has nothing to do with the clothes or shoes, but only to do with the severed limbs. Which is why he put everything else back the way it used to be. But then… the left arm and the right leg. He left the leg in the bathroom and took the arm with him… why? What was different about the left arm and the right leg?”

Misora deliberately shut down then; Ryuzaki seemed determined to lead her to a conclusion, but she was done playing that game. She wanted to see him work something out for a change.

“What about the arm?” he finally prompted, after a few more minutes of conversation back and forth, some rubbish theory about weddings and rings; if she allowed this to reach its obvious conclusion, they would have to work out the clock face, and she wasn’t ready for that yet.

“What about it?” she asked dumbly.

“The arm that was taken from the scene. Why did he take it, and leave the leg?”

“Perhaps he took it to eat it?” Misora spoke levelly, not bothering to colour her voice with disgust or any of her usual emotional flavours she was meant to use if suggesting such a thing in company. She studied the ceiling, waiting for Ryuzaki’s response. The normal response would be disgust, of course, and she was not expecting that from him. However, she needed to know his reaction; it would play a part in her decision of what to do with him.

“Ah, Misora, no. Whilst there is a certain resemblance, this killer is not the LA Monster.”

So blatant, hitting the nail on the head. Of course it was true; the LA Monster was laid on the floor in front of him, not that he could know that.

“What makes you so sure?” Misora asked, hiding a smile. It was about time. _Show me, Ryuzaki, how that delightful mind of yours works._

_Dance for me._

“Is it not obvious? The killings are similar, but not enough.”

“I don’t see it,” Misora lied. Well, there had been no disgust there, but it was disappointing; he had avoided the topic all together. She would have to bring it back round.

“This killer is experimenting, he is new to the game,” Ryuzaki explained. Ah, that argument; this killer could not be the LA monster because he had not done this before. True, but clumsy.

“But what about the level of sophistication in the attacks?” she challenged.

“It shows that the killer has a brilliant mind – a genius, perhaps.”

Arrogance. Not good enough.

“And there have been three…” Misora continued, not bothering to hide a little smile; let Ryuzaki interpret it as he would.

“There will be four. The Wara Ningyo, recall.”

Was that agitation she was hearing in his voice? He wasn’t happy that she was resisting his conclusion. Of course, he didn’t want her to chase the LA Monster; that would be a diversion from his game.

“The bodies are mutilated after death,” she pointed out, purely obstinate now, enjoying keeping him on the back foot. He might be arguing back, but she was definitely the dominant one now.

“Yes, but that is to send a message, not to remove organs or flesh to eat…”

“Except the arm.”

She brought the topic back around; cannibalism. Enough to make most recoil. Her copycat killer had maybe not fully appreciated what he was doing when he decided to use her work as his inspiration. She needed to know how shocked he would be.

“…We cannot just presume that he will eat it, there could be another reason he took it away with him,” Ryuzaki argued. Again, avoiding, but there was not a hint of shock or disgust when he spoke the words ‘eat it’, only a professional judgement.

“So if the mutilation creates the message, this body is our clue,” Misora made the leap, regardless of how easy it would look; she had reached this conclusion a long time ago, and she had the answer she had been seeking about the cannibalism issue.

“Perhaps,” Ryuzaki allowed, and if he looked a little suspicious Misora no longer minded; this would be over soon, and it was nearly time to test the waters anyway.

“Then the arm and leg that remain are the clue? There’s no point focusing on what he did with the arm. I still think he would eat it, though,” she couldn’t resist the last dig, keeping the mischief from her eyes as she sat up from the floor.

“What makes you say that?” Ryuzaki looked intrigued; oh, now _this_ , this was the response she had hoped for.

“He is experimenting. If, as you say, he isn’t the LA Monster, he is both brilliant and curious. He would want to know what it _tastes_ like.”

Silence blanketed the room for at least a whole minute; both killers studying one another, trying to learn more.

“Such a fascinating insight into the mind of a detective,” Ryuzaki purred. Damn, she had pushed too far. Misora was forced to correct her human suit, looking affronted.

“It’s just a theory,” she backed down reluctantly. “I’m sorry, I got carried away…”

“No,” Ryuzaki argued. “I think you might be right.”

_Oh, Ryuzaki, my dear copycat killer, you have just sealed your fate._

“The killer is advancing with each murder. The logical conclusion, if he does indeed take inspiration from the LA Monster, is to eat them eventually. Still, an arm? I would have thought he would have tried a finer meat first,” Ryuzaki nipped his fingertip between his teeth, considering.

“He had to take the arm, or the message wouldn’t make sense,” Misora considered aloud, and proceeded to gradually turn the conversation back to deduction, until she was able to suggest that the reason he must have taken the arm was to hint at what would be on the arm; a watch. The room was a clock; the limbs that remained indicating a time.

Not the time of the next murder, she knew, though she laboured the point with Ryuzaki to ensure her FBI agent mask was restored despite any doubts their cannibalism discussion may have raised. The clues had all hinted at locations; where to go, not when.

It was due to this that they found the location; the clock reading of 06:15:50 or 18:15:50 leading them to a particular condo in which two people with names beginning with the initials BB were living. Misora puzzled briefly before working out Ryuzaki’s plan; they needed to be separate for this to work, after all.

She was to stay in room 1313 and he in 404. He would have to wait for her to check in with L, to ensure that he had his alibi in place, and then he would create the final locked room murder mystery not a murder this time, but a suicide.

Her delightful copycat killer had a death wish that she would not allow him to indulge.

She was due to check in with L at 9am; she was not sure how he would know the time, but she knew that he would. She expected that he intended to die at 9.04am precisely, or at least that would be when he would take whatever action he intended. She was sure he would make it look like a possible murder rather than a suicide.

At 8.50am, she left room 1313 and descended swiftly to the fourth floor, and room 404.

The door was not yet locked, would not be locked until the last possible second. The handle turned in her grasp, and she stepped inside, the gun L had insisted that she bring in her hand just in case Ryuzaki had a similar weapon.

Ryuzaki looked up from where he was wiping down an empty strawberry jam jar, surprise in his eyes.

“Misora,” he scowled. “You aren’t meant to leave room 1313 unguarded…”

She looked pointedly to the gasoline canister, the matches beside it, and Ryuzaki, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s such a pity,” he stood from his chair, setting the jam jar and cloth down. “I had meant for you to survive this.”

Misora laughed, moving to the chair opposite him in the room and checking the clock. 8.59am. Perfectly timed.

“Sit,” she instructed, taking a seat too. Ryuzaki’s wide eyes narrowed, but curiosity won out over homicidal urges as she had expected and he settled back into a crouch on his seat, knees hugged to his chest. She took out her phone; she could see the argument forming in Ryuzaki’s mind, but she ignored him, dialling and waiting whilst the phone rang.

“L.”

Misora fixed her eyes on Ryuzaki’s, impressing on him that he should stay silent and speaking pointedly into the handset.

“Misora. Nothing happening here.” If Ryuzaki had been a normal person, his jaw may have dropped. As it was, he simply cracked his neck bones and watched her curiously. “I spoke to Ryuzaki earlier, but nothing has happened on his end either. No signs of anything out of the ordinary. I’m starting to feel like we’re in it for the long haul.”

“I see. Don’t let your guard down...”

“You know the killer, right?” Misora interrupted him.

“Yes, as I said. He is B.”

“I don’t mean like that… I mean, he’s someone you know personally?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all I need to know,” Misora stopped him again before he could continue. “I shouldn’t waste your time, L. I will call if anything happens.”

“Alright,” L agreed, ending the call there.

Ryuzaki was watching her still.

“You know, I should be arresting you just now,” Misora reminded him, but even as she did so she discarded the gun onto the coffee table, sitting back into her chair.

“So why aren’t you?” Ryuzaki leaned forward in his crouch, his eyes boring in to her.

“The way I see it, there are two reasons you could be here.”

“Which are?

“One,” Misora held up a singular finger. “This whole case was staged to draw me in, so that L could hire me and prove some theory of his. You are working with L, not against him, and at the end of the day you will walk away from this as free as a bird, no matter whether I arrest you or not.”

“Interesting theory,” Ryuzaki grinned. “If you ignore the mutilated corpses, it would almost work.”

“Two,” Misora continued, holding up a second finger. “Your killings has provided L with a perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone, as it were.”

“You make it sound like you are a target, Naomi Misora,” Ryuzaki hadn’t worked it out then, or if he had he was feigning ignorance. Misora lowered her hand.

“It is rather flattering that you used the LA Monster killings for inspiration,” Misora grinned as the connection was made. So, he hadn't known. Ryuzaki cracked his fingers, his grin widening.

“Well aren’t you full of surprises,” Ryuzaki laughed, an unnatural laugh that would have sent chills through any average person. “So, Monster Misora, what are you going to do with me?”

“L has rather cornered us,” Misora told him, bitterly. “The moment he requested I take this case, he had us both beaten.”

“How so?”

“If I solve the case and catch you, you go to prison and L learns what he needs to know about my abilities as a detective. If I fail, he has enough evidence to suggest that I could have solved it, and he can use that to justify a further investigation into me. That, as I’m sure you understand, would be catastrophic.”

“Then why didn’t you refuse to investigate?”

“An FBI agent does not have the right to refuse a request like that from L,” Misora scowled. “I would be fired, at the very least, and that would amount to me being just as cornered; part of the reason I can get away with murders is that I can maintain knowledge of the FBI investigation from within.”

“So how do you get out of this?” Ryuzaki questioned.

“That depends,” Misora took out a knife from her pocket; far better than a gun any day. She tested the sharpness of the blade with her finger; it cut with the slightest pressure. She sucked the fingertip and the drop of beading blood between her lips, holding Ryuzaki’s gaze. “There are two options.”

“Which are?”

“One,” Misora made a cut in the table top with the blade, “I kill you here, create a locked room, and make this look like the

“That’s the same problem as before,” Ryuzaki argued. “You would have failed to stop the killer, and brought more scrutiny on yourself as the LA Monster.”

“Ah,” Misora held up the knife, halting him. “True, but I would have the pleasure of killing you, dear Ryuzaki. That would more than make up for it.”

“Curious,” Ryuzaki tipped his head to the side; his neck was strangely flexible, and his ear was touching his shoulder. “What is option two?”

“We leave here together,” Misora told him. “L has us beaten, but that doesn’t mean we just have to submit. In fact, if you truly mean what you said before about being a top, I imagine that is not something you would be willing to do.”

“We go on the run?” Ryuzaki sounded disgusted. “I don’t find you that interesting.”

“You will. And not exactly,” Misora chuckled. “We don’t have to run; we just have to stay away from L’s detection for a while. I wouldn’t expect it to last forever; we would be caught eventually, but we could have some fun whilst we wait.”

“Fun?”

“Murder,” Misora explained. “And sex. The two together - or separately, if you like.”

“Ah,” Ryuzaki laughed, that cackling laugh again. “So eager to submit?”

Misora allowed a smirk to curl her lips.

“You will have to wait your turn,” she told him, her tone not leaving room for any arguments.

“And how do you see this working?” he asked. “Running away together in the sunset?”

“No,” Misora used the knife to get a little dirt out from under one of her perfectly manicured nails. “You would abduct me, of course.”

“I see,” Ryuzaki leaned forwards to collect the gun from the table, turning it over in his hands only to find that it was not every loaded. Misora hadn’t bothered; guns were a very boring way to kill.

“ _After_ the fourth murder,” Misora told him. “We would create the fourth locked room mystery for L to investigate before we go. A little of my blood, for a DNA profile, make it look like I would have tried to stop you but you knocked me unconscious first, that’s all it will take.”

“There is a third option,” Ryuzaki told her. “I knock you unconscious now, and burn us both.”

“That would defeat the point,” Misora reminded him. “If I’m right, and I usually am, you created this case as a way to defy L; to show that you could create a case he couldn’t solve. If he had picked another agent I have no doubt it would have remained unsolved forever. Instead, he has solved it. You have lost, _B_ , and so why not have some fun?”

“Besides,” she continued with a tilt to her head and a smirk on her lips. “You still want to know what it _tastes_ like.”

Ryuzaki’s lips parted at the temptation; oh, yes, she had him hooked.

“So, what’ll it be?” she asked, prepared to strike if necessary.

“Option two,” he told her. “On one condition – I would like to see you kill.”

“Of course,” Misora promised, removing the matches as she left the room, taking the knife with her.


	4. Domination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Monster plays

After going back to room 1313 to gather her equipment and put on her kill suit, she had found the woman in the hallway; one of L’s, no doubt. It had been child’s play to approach silently behind her in the darkness, even as observant as this woman was, and neatly insert a needle into her neck, the drug knocking the victim unconscious almost instantly.

She had taken her through to room 404 without delay; the dead weight would have been difficult to manage without experience. A swift search found the bugs in the clothing, which Misora stripped away anyway and set aside; Ryuzaki had been in the habit of mutilating the bodies without clothes and dressing them again, a pattern Misora was more than capable of continuing.

“Observing, or participating?” Misora asked Ryuzaki as she stood over the bound body at her feet. The drug she had used was quick acting and also quick to reverse; a further drug had done so within minutes of the woman being knocked out. Her victim struggled against the ropes that had been used to bind her, screaming into her gag.

“Observing,” Ryuzaki declared, a dark grin curling his lips. He moved away; leaning against the wall near the doorway. He did not have the benefit of a plastic suit like Misora.

“All mine then,” Misora purred, lowering herself down to a crouch over her victim’s hips. The woman stared up at her, a rabbit in the headlights. “Hmm, what to do with you? No, this won’t do.”

Misora stood, swiftly kicking the bound woman onto her front, hearing ribs cracking. She crouched over her again, pelvis to pelvis.

“Much better,” she praised, gently shifting the woman’s hair out of the way with gentle hands before marking the skin lightly with her small knife; designing her artwork. The woman squirmed and wriggled as much as the bindings and Misora’s weight over her would allow. “Now, try not to scream.”

Misora reached into her wipe-clean bag, removing a small circular saw and switching it on. At the sound of the mechanism activating, the woman’s efforts to struggle re doubled, her screams muffled only by the gag.

“Now now,” Misora laughed, deactivating the tool. “That wasn’t what I said, was it? I believe I specifically asked you not to scream.”

The woman fell silent behind the gag, the hope that if she remained quiet this torture would be all threat with no action. For a long minute the only sound that filled the room was heavy breathing; Ryuzaki’s the loudest, the most desperate.

“No,” Misora chuckled, stroking her fingers over the thin cuts on the woman’s back. “You broke the rules, you need to be punished. Hmm, such a loud scream… strong lungs.”

Ryuzaki watched in fascination as Misora activated the power tool again, swiftly and cleanly cutting downwards on either side of the spine, across, and upwards – breaking the rib cage and folding the broken section upwards and away, creating wings.

“Now, we have less than a minute before your brain loses all its oxygen,” Misora purred. “But you’re doing so well, look, no more screams!”

Of course, there were no more screams; with her ribs open like this, the woman’s lungs wouldn’t expand. She couldn’t breathe, and she would die of suffocation long before she died of her wounds. The more she struggled and tried to scream, the quicker she would make it.

“I’ll be taking these,” Misora activated the tool again, cutting away the lungs. Blood began to pour as she severed the major vessels supplying the tissue.

Misora paused as she bagged the organs, the fight quickly fading from the woman she continued to pin down with her slight weight. She glanced at Ryuzaki; not to see his reaction, but to remind herself. Lungs were quite a choice cut of meat. Besides, the tissue was slightly stained; the woman must be a smoker, the lungs affected by the start of tar build up. Not an appetising meal. Perhaps she would be better off starting him with something more familiar?

She activated her cutter again, removing three ribs from either side of the chest. The effect of the wings created by the ribcage was reduced by this, but honey glazed ribs were usually a firm favourite and it would be better to start off with something familiar to ease him in. She bagged them each separately; she would prepare the meat properly later, once they were away from this place and L’s investigators.

She stood, glancing down; her plastic suit had done its usual job of protecting her clothing, but red covered her front. She looked up to Ryuzaki, swiping a finger through the blood and making a show of tasting it. His eyes widened; this was promising, she considered, as she saw the arousal there and in his gasping breaths.

“Misora,” the name was a benediction.

So much for never being submissive.

“Clothe the corpse and wipe the surfaces,” she commanded, calculating the physics of how to create the mechanism that would lock the door; with only one Wara Ningyo, she would need to be more creative. The pulley system would need to be more complicated; there were a few connections in the room that would work. First, though, she would need to clean up. Not the blood on the floor, that could stay; it was a part of the artwork, but her suit would need to be cleaned and dried before it could be stored in her bag, as would the circular saw.

 

* * *

 

They moved on.

Evading L’s officers was shockingly simple when all was said and done. They were bold about it, of course; other than pulling their hoods over their heads to partly hide their faces, not an unusual sight since it was raining outside, they did nothing to hide their identities and simply walked out of the front entrance of the building at the same time as a group of other residents.

Misora collected several bags from her car; she had left nothing incriminating there, only her clothing and other such items that she could travel with if she wanted to. Ryuzaki brought his car around – well, it was his, now, since he had stolen it a few minutes before. He made a show of threatening her there in the parking lot, which would not fool L but was convincing enough for the police, the unloaded gun pointed at her head as she was forced to put her things into his new vehicle and then get in herself.

It was hours later and well off the beaten track that they pulled in to a hotel, spending a fair amount of money (inconsequential to Misora) on convincing the staff that she was there by choice and that they should not phone the police. They would come up with a better solution later; for now, Misora was more focused on capitalising on the expression she had seen on Ryuzaki’s face earlier.

“Strip,” she ordered as soon as they were settled in the hotel room.

Ryuzaki turned to her, straightening to his full height; at least a head taller than her.

“I told you,” he snarled, “that I am an aggressive top. I do not submit.”

Misora smirked.

“And I told you to wait your turn,” she commanded. “In this room, you will call me Monster. Is there anything you would like me to call you?”

She delighted in the name the police, FBI and the media had given her. The thought of it on the mouthy Ryuzaki’s clever lips as she commanded him, as she fucked him, excited her.

“You will be submitting to me,” Ryuzaki demanded, moving closer, slamming both long fingered hands against the door on either side of her, leaning in. “And you may call me Beyond.”

“B?” Misora confirmed, grinning. Before he could open his mouth to speak, she had dropped down and swung out a leg, turning on the spot. Her leg caught the back of his knees which folded beneath him, hitting the floor hard; the cracking noise they made threatening a possible injury. She was behind him in an instant, her favourite knife to his throat to force him to remain still. “Submit.”

“No,” Ryuzaki snarled, his movements equally quick but improvised; it was clear he did not have the same degree of combat training she did. He managed to get away from the knife and grapple her to the floor; in a match of strength he had the upper hand, but she was quicker, and more practiced; she caught him between the legs with a knee and with an elbow to the throat sent him spluttering to the floor, allowing her to get on top of him again. His hard cock pressed against her through clothing; it seemed he was enjoying this as much as she was.

She placed the knife against his throat again.

“Submit.”

“Never,” he growled, but didn’t move this time; she had him trapped, but if she wanted to move he would have an opening to fight again.

With her free hand she reached in to her pocket, taking out her second favourite knife; exactly the same as the first, but the handle coloured green rather than blue. The blade ran over the plain t-shirt, splitting it and leaving a very faint impression on the skin below. She repeated the process with all of the clothing she could reach without removing the first knife from his throat, periodically shifting her hips against his cock, keeping him ready.

“If you behave yourself,” she offered generously, “it will be your turn next time.”

Ryuzaki snarled up at her, eyes wild.

“To the bed, on your hands and knees,” Misora commanded, lifting her weight but keeping her blades in position – the one he could see against his throat. She allowed the tip of the second blade to reveal its location, right beside the clothed cock.

Ryuzaki had no choice, with that threat; he may have a death wish, but that particular mutilation was not one he was keen to experience.

“On your back,” Misora ordered, waiting for him to be in position before she removed the blade against his neck; the other blade was doing its job more effectively anyway. From the top of the bed where she had discarded one of her bags she drew out some zip ties, using them to tie Ryuzaki’s hands to the top of the bed with a practiced motion. She moved down and sat on his legs, keeping them still whilst she secured his ankles, too.

Now that he could not move, there was no need to continue the threat of the knife, so she ran the razor-sharp blade over his jeans, slicing them away and finding no underwear beneath.

She set the blade aside, but within reach; she would be needing that later.

She stood, studying the furious, strange man. He was thin; too thin, but she didn’t mind that. The ability to see the outline of the ribs beneath the skin gave her lines within which to work; she could work with that. The only part of him that wasn’t thin was his cock, larger than she had expected; if he was as aggressive a top as he claimed, she imagined someone with his size could do some damage; it would probably hurt, at the very least.

Not that she had ever minded a little pain; inflicting it or taking it, it didn’t matter to her.

Watching him strain against the zip ties until they cut into his skin, she could feel herself getting wet already; especially when blood began to run down his wrists, a steady venous trickle; nothing dangerous, but delicious.

She descended upon him at last, licking the blood where it ran down his arms, tasting the salt of his skin and the iron of his blood on her tongue. Ryuzaki redoubled his efforts, demanding that she untie him.

“If you are quiet,” Misora told him softly, kissing him, holding his jaw when he tried to clamp his teeth down around her tongue. “I will tell you how I will kill you rather than show you.”

He caught her bottom lip between his teeth, biting down hard until she bled. Misora only forced his jaw apart when it seemed he was going to continue to put on pressure until he had bitten clean through. As she drew back she sucked her lip into her mouth, tasting the mixing of her blood with Ryuzaki’s.

“You’d best be clean,” Misora warned him, contemplating the mixture of bloods. She did not give him time to answer, deciding that he had taken advantage enough of having his clever mouth free; she reached in to her bag again, selecting a narrow gag and fitting it tightly between his lips, stretching them backwards around it.

Misora returned to the blood on his wrists; catching it on her tongue before it could finish drying. There was no more leaking from the wounds; disappointed, she took up her favourite knife and moved to his chest.

“You are only alive because of me,” she reminded him, stroking the cold blunt edge of the blade down over his cheek and over his carotid, down to his collar bone. “Your life belongs to me now.”

She turned the blade over, the sharp edge pointing into this collar bone. She pressed gently; the skin parting like butter beneath the pressure until she reached the desired depth.

“Would you like to know how I thought I would kill you, when we first met?”

She carved neat straight lines over the collar bone and the skin that extended below, blood running down from the cuts. After each one she leaned down and soothed it with her tongue, getting to taste.

“It was when I saw you eating that strawberry jam.”

She made more neat cuts; each one deep enough to scar. Ryuzaki gasped around the gag with each one. To her delight, he had begun to fight against the restraints again but nothing so far had reduced his rock-hard erection which she was careful not to accidentally touch as she hovered over him.

“The redness of it… you are a disgusting eater, you know. It ran down your arms, like blood.”

Her design complete, she lapped the blood away to get a clear view; her name, Naomi Misora, written in kanji beneath his collar bone.

“My first thought was that I might skin you.”

Ryuzaki gasped around the gag, turning into a choke when she finally devoted her attention to his cock, her hand wrapping around it tightly, stroking roughly; testing how prepared he was for her. He was hard as a rock, precum lubricating the movements of her hand. Misora didn’t worry about protection; if Ryuzaki had any terrible disease, she would likely have caught it already from the contact between his blood and hers, and she was already protected against pregnancy.

“I would take my favourite knife,” she told him as she moved off of him to remove her clothing. “And split the skin at your ankles; split you down the front and over your legs, and peel back the skin while you watched, bound and helpless.”

She was done removing her clothing; prepared enough, she was sure, but she tested anyway if only to frustrate Ryuzaki; in full view, she slid two and then three fingers into herself, using a few short thrusts of her fingers to ensure she was stretched. Ryuzaki’s cock was large enough that she would need the additional preparation, but she kept it to a minimum, not caring that it would hurt at first. She looked forward to it.

“You would scream, if I decided you were worthy of having your clever mouth free to do so,” she told him, moving over his cock and aligning it with her core. “I would peel the skin back slowly, letting the blood clot before I took the next piece. It would take you hours to die that way.”

Ryuzaki was groaning behind the gag as she sank down onto him; she was too tight, he was too large, and the stretch was burning and uncomfortable. It must have felt tight to him, too, given how he strained again against the restraints.

She didn’t stop, continuing through the pain as she sank down onto him completely.

“Hours in which I could do whatever I wanted with you,” Misora continued, holding herself still whilst the pain subsided. She leaned down over him, lapping at the blood from her name on his shoulder, the taste helping her to relax.

“Would you like that, Ryuzaki?”

Her copycat shook his head so vigorously that the movement shook the headboard. Misora laughed considering.

“Would you like that, _Beyond_?”

He groaned, straining against the zip ties, hips lifting from the bed.

“Would you like me to move?”

His head nodded, just a little. Misora grinned.

“Will you behave if I remove the gag?”

He shook his head, a no, but she did so anyway. As she did she lifted herself upwards off of his cock until only the head was inside, sliding down as the gag released.

It made no difference; Beyond’s head snapped to the left, his unnaturally flexible neck allowing him to contort enough to catch her wrist with his teeth, drawing blood.

“Hmm,” Misora lifted herself again, nearly letting him slide entirely out of her as she studied the wound on her wrist. “Getting a taste for it already?”

Beyond had a strip of flesh still between his teeth. He held her gaze and for a moment she expected him to spit it out, even if only to spite her, but then his tongue curled around it and he swallowed it down in one.

“Delicious,” he purred, and even though she knew he had only done it to regain some element of control in the situation she delighted in the sight.

She began to move, sliding down his large cock and rotating her hips a little with each penetration, creating a steady throbbing rhythm; just enough to satisfy her, not enough to bring him over the edge. With her wrist torn, she used the blood that ran down to her index finger to draw on his chest; BB.

“Why double?” she asked, even as her mind was clouded with pain and pleasure.

“Beyond Birthday,” the man she had known as Ryuzaki gasped out. She clenched her internal muscles cruelly, making him groan.

“That’s not your real name.”

“No,” he confessed. He bit his lip, hard – hard enough to draw blood. Misora watched him; he really was getting a taste for this. It was almost enough – she was getting so close, but she would not let go just yet.

She lifted her bleeding wrist to his lips.

“Lick,” she commanded, testing just how far gone he was.

Beyond didn’t lick, but he didn’t bite either; he closed his lips around the wound and sucked, his tongue lapping at the skin he had sucked in to his mouth.

It seemed he had lied when he had claimed he would never be submissive.

It was enough; Misora’s movements became uncoordinated as pleasure overwhelmed her, her wrist pulling away from his mouth as her back arched, her hands resting on his chest. She had no regard for his pleasure as she took her own, only fully realising with a detached thought that he was coming, too, when she heard the noises he was making beneath her.

She caught her breath more quickly than Ryuzaki – than Beyond. If both were false names why should it matter which she used? But he recovered his senses before her, and was gazing up at her with knowing eyes.

“You will make a marvellous submissive,” he told her challengingly. Misora grinned down at him; yes, she supposed, he had earned it; but not tonight.

She took up her knife, cutting the zip ties that bound him. The wounds on his wrists were raw; had he been her pathetic cover Raye Pember, she would have needed to spend hours apologising for the slightest injury, but not with Beyond. He tended her wrist first as she watched him, still imperious in her manner as he served her. It was only once this was cleaned, dressed and bandaged, that he tended his own injuries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've counterbalanced the evil in this by writing a bit of Mello/Near fluff drabble too; go figure. I'm also posting them both today so if you're interested take a look.


	5. Defence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beyond works out Misora's play against L.  
> They leave the hotel with a parting gift.

Misora scowled as she woke, tempted to pull the pillow around her ears.

Through in the bathroom, Beyond turned off the shower that had previously drowned out his caterwauling, an unorthodox interpretation of the Rolling Stones’ ‘Paint it Black’.

Misora growled, but stilled any murderous urges that arose from being woken so early. Since her companion was done with the shower, and she was still a mess from the night before, she left the bed sheets behind and strode through into the bathroom, leaning in the doorway.

“Do you take requests?”

“Ah, you’re up,” Beyond beamed at her. Without waiting for her to prompt him, he sprang into a similarly abnormal interpretation of David Bowie’s ‘All the Madmen’.

“Hmm, it’ll do,” Misora strode past him, turning the shower back on. It was still hot, almost scolding at the temperature he had turned it to, just as she preferred; she stepped under, allowing the water to wash away Beyond’s blood and their combined fluids.

By the time Beyond had finished his rendition of the Misfits’ ‘Mommy, Can I Go Out and Kill Tonight’, Misora was stepping out of the shower, wrapping a clean white towel around herself and going to observe Beyond where he danced around the bedroom.

“You seem happy this morning,” she raised a sculpted eyebrow.

“Ha!” Beyond doubled over laughing; it went on for an abnormally long time before he finally straightened back up. “Happy Birthday!”

“…Yes. Very amusing,” Misora rolled her eyes at the bad joke. “It seems submission suits you.”

“Ha.” Beyond grimaced. “No.”

Misora tipped her head to the side as she considered him; his head and then his body followed hers, so they were both tilted over sideways. “Then why?”

“I've been thinking,” Beyond tapped at his head, hard – the sound it made strangely hollow.

“Care to share?”

Beyond cackled a laugh, springing back into his dancing and humming along. “I’m safe.”

Misora watched his uncoordinated movements, fascinated by how flexible he was; perhaps double jointed? “You’re running away with a monster and being hunted by the world’s greatest detective. That’s pretty much the definition of not safe.”

“Yup,” Beyond giggled, scurrying over to her and poking her in the centre of her chest. “But I’m safe with you.”

It was Misora’s turn to laugh, a delicate tinkling sound when compared to Beyond’s cackle.

“How do you figure that?”

“Weeell, your turn's finished,” Beyond grinned, teeth bared.

Misora’s laugh deepened, darker now.

“And if I don’t submit?”

“Ooh, feisty,” Beyond reached out, stroking her damp hair. Misora snarled, slapping his hand away. Beyond tangled his fingers into her hair, tugging her head backwards, her throat baring for his teeth, which scraped over the delicate pulse point. “You will. You have to. Can’t risk hurting me anymore.”

Damn it. He was right.

“How’d you figure?” she asked anyway, meeting his eyes even though his grip in her hair meant that he very nearly pulled a clump of it out. The pain was sharp and intense; delicious.

“You need me to fuck you up,” Beyond released her hair, stroking those long fingers over the abused scalp tenderly, then digging nails in sharply. Misora hissed, pupils blowing.

“Ah,” a pity. She thought she would have more fun with this first. All the same, “You figured it out then?”

“Yup,” Beyond moved away; fiddling with her toy bag. Misora moved out of the doorway, removing the towel from around herself and beginning to use it to dry her hair. “You're my hostage.”

“Pretend hostage,” she pointed out.

“Well, yup,” he allowed. “But, since L has both of us where he wants us...”

“Trapped,” Misora spat bitterly.

“Not trapped. Not you, anyway.”

Such an intelligent madman. He really had worked it out, hadn’t he?

“You figure?”

“Yup,” Beyond finally found what he wanted in the bag; slipping it up his sleeve, he crawled onto the bed beside her, settling behind her and taking the towel, drying her hair for her. “But you need me.”

“Go on.”

“Well, L can cry wolf all he wants,” Beyond’s treatment of her hair was almost tender as he collected her hairbrush from the dresser and began carefully teasing apart the tangles. “If he can’t prove it in court you go free, right? Even L’s word isn’t a guilty verdict on its own.”

“Yes,” since he was being gentle with her, Misora allowed her head to tip back, enjoying the sensations.

“Well,” Beyond caught her hair, pulling it sharply backwards unexpectedly; she jerked back against his chest, “that's why you need me.”

“Clever, she praised, looking upside down at his face. Long fingers curled around her throat, not putting on any pressure, just resting there. Beyond’s eyes blazed, red and dangerous.

“You need me to fuck you up,” he purred, delighted, “so that it makes you look like the victim. Then L can shout and ball all he wants, tell the world you’re the monster you are, but no jury will convict you.”

Misora nodded her head; her clever copycat had it right. However…

“I still fail to see how this makes you safe,” she pressed; he pressed right back, physically, his fingers tightening around her throat. It was not enough to cut off her airway, but enough to make it uncomfortable and with the promise of more.

“Well, _you_ can’t fuck _me_ up too much,” Beyond giggled, “I'm the evil psychotic murderer, remember.”

“True,”

“And you’re the delicate little lamb for the slaughter,” his fingers tightened again; suffocating until her vision began to turn white. Misora allowed it, drifting with the sensation.

“So, you can try to dominate me as much as you like, but you can’t leave any more lasting damage,” Beyond used her hair to force her to look at his shoulder; engraved with her name in kanji. “This little scratch you can play off as something I did myself. Any more though and your plan falls apart.”

Misora struggled to laugh, her lungs aching and throat sore.

“There’s plenty I can do without leaving a lasting mark.”

“Oh, I’ll bet,” Beyond purred. “But this gives _me_ the advantage. You're wearing the collar and chained, little Miss Monster.”

He kept hold of her hair, his other hand revealing what he had collected from the bag.

“Did it have to be the pink one?” Misora grumbled as he secured the collar around her neck, just a little too tight; sore. With every breath she would be reminded that it was there.

“Well, I’d rather one with a little bell, but you didn’t have one of those,” Beyond slid a finger beneath the soft leather, pulling it tight enough to restrict her breathing; Misora growled. There was only so much she was willing to tolerate for her plan.

“So here we are. A pair of psychopaths helping each other out.”

Beyond scoffed. “In what way is _this_ helping me out?”

“This is your best possible world, B. You're not getting a better one,” Misora sighed; she would very much like to keep him, but there was no way for that to work. “Why not spend this time indulging with me?”

“Hmm,” Beyond stroked a long finger around the edge of the collar. “Are we going to kill today?”

“Observing or participating?”

“Participating,” Beyond decided. “Definitely participating.”

“Then yes, we’re going to kill today.”

Beyond released her. Misora sat up, restoring her posture and composure; she traced the collar with a finger of her own. Curious, she went to look at herself in the mirror.

“It doesn’t really mark me as _yours_ , though, does it B?” she complained. “How about the red one, to match your eyes?”

“Hmm,” Beyond took the red collar out of the bag, turning it over in his hands. “On one condition.”

“And what would that be?”

Beyond pulled another of her toys from his sleeve; a fairly substantial beaded anal plug.

“You wear this for the rest of the day,” he tossed it to her. Naomi caught it in one hand without turning around, wrapping her fingers around it; smaller than his cock, despite its size. “Keep yourself ready for me.”

 

* * *

 

It was important that they should keep moving, for now.

L would be on their trail; perhaps he already knew where they were. When they had checked in to the hotel the night before, they hadn’t been stopped, suggesting that their pictures had not been in the news at that point, but that morning things had changed.

After they loaded the car, they checked the news. Beyond still didn’t have his picture shown, but Misora’s was there; not as a suspected murderer, but as a missing person. Of course, people would be less likely to contact for fear of a suspected murderer and more likely to call in if they thought they were helping her.

“We would like to use the kitchen,” Beyond told the staff member serving them their breakfast. This was a small hotel; of a handful of guests, the majority of whom were truckers and already on their way after an early start. Misora counted three visible staff members, probably two or three more in the kitchen, and two families of guests.

The collar pressed tightly into her throat, one of her favourite toys seated deeply within her ass, both reminding her of her role in this little act. Beyond had led her down to breakfast, his hand around her arm, looking for all intents and purposes like the hostage and captor. The staff member who had signed them into the hotel the night before had looked shocked at the turn around, the change from the bouncy and enthusiastic young couple he had signed in to a room the night before; Beyond signing his name in a confident scrawl, Misora making her hand shake to give anyone reading the entry in the guest log a sense of her supposed fear.

“I’m sorry, but health and safety would have a field day if I let you back there,” their server told them.

“It would be better for your health,” Beyond grinned his toothy grin; their server took a step back, recoiling, “and your safety if you just did as I said.”

“Please, B,” Naomi begged, eyes on her as yet empty plate, reaching out with a shaking hand to take his. Beyond flashed his eyes to her, then backhanded her sharply across the face. Misora made herself react as any normal person would, tumbling from her chair and landing heavily on her hands and knees, gasping. Tears came to her eyes. “No… please, B, don’t… I’ll do anything, just don’t hurt them!”

The guests were quickest to flee as Beyond advanced on the door, letting them pass with a gracious bow and locking them out.

“Overacted,” he scolded her as she gathered herself up from the floor. The kitchen had another exit, but they had already barred it from the outside. There was no escape for the five hotel staff.

“Says you,” Misora laughed, her blood pumping. She rubbed at her cheek; more theatrics. “I think you might have left a bruise.”

“Good.”

“Five of them,” Misora considered. “And a time limit – how long for the police to get here?”

She was calculating it herself when Beyond answered. “Seventeen minutes and counting.”

“A simple artwork then,” she mused. “A tree?”

“Boring,” Beyond grumbled. “How about a B?”

“A little obvious,” Misora shrugged. “But then, I’m just the hostage.”

The pair moved through the doorway to the kitchen, protected only by a curtain. Each of their five potential victims had armed themselves with knives and pans, but they were the ones that looked scared. Misora glanced to her left at Beyond.

“Have fun,” she encouraged, and then she moved.

Capoeira was a skill built on dodging and rapid attacks; speed over strength. Misora’s adapted version was sharper and faster still; not even a master would be a challenge for her to defeat.

The first went down in a gush of blood, his own blade cutting his throat as she twisted him into a knot. Too fast, but the blood that coated Misora’s clothing, soaking through to her skin made it worth it. Gone was the Monster that hid beneath a plastic suit; Misora wanted to feel this, wanted to delight in the freedom she had as long as Beyond was there to provide a decent alternate suspect.

Straightening, Misora took in the other two victims focused on her; they looked even more frightened now. Good.

She ran her fingers through her blood-soaked hair, studying the redness that coated her hand and lapping a little off; good, but not as delicious as her copycat’s.

“Hello, boys,” she purred, her hips swinging like a model on the catwalk as she ran those fingers down her neck, over the collar that adorned it, and down between her breasts, tipping her head back; she could feel Beyond watching, distracted from his one remaining victim. The other was on the floor, and he had done a good job; the chef was alive, his bowels spilled across the floor. He would die, but not immediately; still, it would be before when the police would arrive.

She focused on her own playthings; the waiter, and a man she hadn’t seen before around the hotel.

When she moved she did so swiftly, dropping low and slicing the Achilles tendons of the waiter, then as he fell using his own weight to impale him on the blade, a long butcher’s knife that pierced deeply enough to clip the aortic bifurcation; he would bleed to death from the inside. He would have just enough time for her to play.

That left one, and Beyond had dispatched his second, this one dead – he had been carried away by the bloodlust.

Misora stood, painted red with blood but perfectly composed, and wordlessly invited him in.

“Last man standing,” Beyond studied the final staff member, detached.

“You’ve watched me play,” Misora opened an arm towards the remaining man, inviting Beyond to claim the kill.

Idly, whilst Beyond took the final victim to the ground, Misora took out a clean butcher’s knife from one of the drawers and began to carve from her living victim, removing the most tender fillet cuts from his back.

They were limited for time; Beyond didn’t have the unlimited hours to have his fun that Misora had back at the complex. Misora watched him work, shifting restlessly as she did. All of the movement, the excitement, had increased the stimulation of the toy Beyond had insisted she wear within her; now that she stopped, the sensations were catching up with her. She was wet; not just with blood.

Beyond was carving into the man’s chest, using a narrow cheese grater. With every scrape, the letter became more and more elaborate; B, drawn in what Misora’s fantastic memory reminded her was the cloister black font. The same font that L had used to sign his email to her when he asked her to take on the case. Blood was flowing freely from the man’s mouth, and he was slowly choking on it; Misora realised that while she had distracted herself with collecting their supper, Beyond had removed the man’s tongue.

“Seven minutes,” Misora told Beyond as his plaything perished.

“Got what you wanted?” he asked, glancing at the meat she had wrapped neatly.

“Only the best for our first date, pet.”

Beyond took a cloth from the counter, wiping the handles of the blades they had used, and every surface they had touched. Misora watched, looking over the floor. There was so much blood that any sign of footprints had already been obscured, but still, she could not leave her own on the way out.

“Beyond, sweetie, you’ll have to carry me,” she told him when he had finished his task. Beyond theatrically swept her up into his arms, wiping his foot over the space where her two feet had just been, smearing it with blood until the space was filled.

“You still haven’t cooked for me,” he complained as he carried her out to the car, only putting her down when she was at the front seat. As soon as they were out of the room Misora had made a show of struggling, just in case any of the other guests were looking.

“Eleven minutes,” she reminded him; six to get away before the police could arrive, or they would need to kill them too. “Head North. I have a quaint little cabin near Wapama falls; not even L could connect it back to me. We’ll go there for tonight. Are you excited?”

“Yes,” Beyond grabbed her hand, pressing it to his crotch. Her copycat had no subtlety at all, really.

“That, too,” she chuckled, shifting in her seat, the beads rubbing deliciously, keeping her stretched and ready. “But I meant for your first taste?”

“I’m still not sure cannibalism is my thing,” Beyond glanced at the bag, curious but not quite shaking that last little inkling of disgust.

“This isn't cannibalism, Beyond,” Misora grinned. “It's only cannibalism if we're equals.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All songs above from the playlist I have on in the background if I'm struggling to write a BB scene (though that's quite rare, since I am really very fond of B he tends to write himself and I just have to go back and edit any unacceptable bits).  
> Let me know what you think, I know it's both a less common pairing and a cross over so not as many will be interested as in something more usual.


	6. Chrysalis

When police didn’t know what to look for, it was exceptionally easy to drive straight past their cars, having donned coats and wiped their faces to ensure there would be nothing easily visible from the car that would catch the eye. By the time the police even knew they were chasing them, they had no idea of what vehicle they were in and no idea where they had gone.

Since that time they had been driving for three hours and Beyond would have been thoroughly lost had it not been for Misora’s directions on the countryside roads, roads that were not monitored by traffic cameras.

“I thought you said this was yours?” Beyond grumbled as they pulled along the seventh dirt road of the hour, pulling up outside a large house with two visible stories and an outer door that looked to lead to a basement. There were no lights on in the building, but two cars outside along with a number of livestock out back suggested that there were people living there.

Misora flicked a business card at him; Beyond glanced at the names on it, puzzled.

“It was mine the moment he gave me that card,” Misora told Beyond, elegantly stepping out of the car. The blood on her clothing was dried now; she was more than ready to clean up. However, first, she would need to deal with the banker inside. “There is no way to connect this place with me because it doesn’t have my name on it in any way, and this man has only ever attended one of my dinner parties. He was a terrible bore; spent the whole night boasting about how much money he was about to make on a new stock he had invested in. No one would remember that he was even there.”

“Have you ever been here before?”

“No,” she admitted, collecting a gun from the back. Beyond scowled at her. “Oh, relax B. I’m not going to kill him with it, that’d be boring but I want to get cleaned up and I don’t really want to wait. He has a huge burn pit out back, really showy, with a spit roast for if he shoots anything out on the hills; you can see how long it takes to roast him alive, if you like.”

Beyond looked delighted at that suggestion and was fully supportive of her as she threatened the house’s single resident with the gun, a lazy way to do things but then they were rather messy and the dried blood was not as fun as fresh. He bound the man, wrists and ankles all connected together behind his back, and bound him to the spit roast post, getting the fire lit. The man’s begging for his freedom, for mercy, followed Misora into the house where she opened the window to hear the serenade of his pleas and Beyond’s laughter.

The shower unfortunately drowned them out; the almost scolding heat Misora preferred not possible with the old-style boiler this property had fitted, but hot enough to sting a little at first as the water washed away the evidence of her crimes.

By the time she was out of the shower the screaming was intense; if she knew B as well as she thought she did, it would last for hours. He would have started the fire at the man’s feet and have prepared it in such a way that his feet would be effectively cooked before the fire would even spread higher up the burn pit to heat the rest of him. He would die slowly and in agony.

Misora recalled the rude banker who had tried to defraud her of a few thousand pounds six years ago, and approved.

There was no way to trace him back to her. Even if there hadn’t been six years since she had encountered him, he had never been successful with his fraud and her name had never been associated with him.

She wasn’t worried that people would come looking for him, either. The banker had always taken his vacations alone, with every electronic device powered down or at least disconnected from communications networks. He took this time away from the bank and his family for himself. She hadn’t expected him to be at the house, but it was just a bonus to find him there.

She checked his diary anyway. He was to be at the house for a whole month, and this was only the first week. That gave them far more time than she had expected to stay in the one place anyway.

Misora dressed in a neat pencil skirt and blouse, putting on kitten heels as well to complete the look. She was disappointed with the state of the other items in her bag; they were creased – less than perfect.

She glanced out of the window, checking on Beyond. He looked like he would be occupied for a while. She would have plenty of time to neaten up the place and her things before dinner. She always had been particular about how she liked her home.

 

* * *

 

Beyond was very careful, building the fire to progress slowly so that it would only affect the banker’s feet at first and build until it was a slow burn beneath him, and would not catch on his skin. The man was bound to the spit, entirely unharmed until the flames started to heat him up, and wide awake, screaming.

Beyond checked the numbers above his head; three hours, twelve minutes and twenty-seven seconds. Twenty-six. Twenty-five. He would be unconscious for a long time before he finally expired, of course, and the screams would probably stop before then as his mind tried to blank out what was happening.

This wasn’t much of an experiment when he already had the result.

Beyond had always been able to see people’s names and life spans. It hadn’t exactly been a helpful skill; the numbers ticking down had reminded him of the futility of life, and every number told him that the death was coming closer. Coming for him, as it was for everyone.

When he had started his murders, the LABB murder case, he had chosen his victims carefully for the numbers and letters; people who would have died anyway, or so he had considered at the time.

He had tried to change death dates before, tried to protect A from his inevitable doom. A had taken his own life in the end, overwhelmed by the pressure to become L and by Beyond’s pressure to keep himself safe. In that last week of A’s life B had locked him away, so that nothing would be able to hurt him.

Except himself.

So, B didn’t have an issue with death. If it was fated, it would happen.

There was a little voice in the back of his mind – one that sounded an awful lot like L’s synthetic sound – that nagged at him though he tried to blank it out.

This banker was out here on his own and completely safe. If he and Misora hadn’t come here, there would have been no reason for him to die. He wouldn’t have a reason for his numbers to be so close to zero. Perhaps he wouldn’t have died.

That little synthetic whisper also reminded him that even if the man had to die, he didn’t have to suffer like this.

In the LABB case, Beyond had drugged those that he killed. He wasn’t concerned about death, but there was no reason that they had to suffer. Killing them had been a part of their death, an inevitable fact. Beyond had been raised in Wammy’s house, and he had always had a very strong sense of right and wrong – of justice.

This wasn’t like him. This indiscriminate killing, this delight in their deaths.

The LABB case had been a means to an end, it hadn’t been about the murders. The little voice reminded him that he was B, of Wammy’s house, and he should be trying to stop this sort of thing from happening rather than delighting in it.

He was changing. A seed had been planted when he watched Misora kill. It had started to grow back in the hotel, as she dominated him, as they killed together. It grew still with the banker’s screaming.

He wasn’t sure he would like who he would be once this process was completed.

But he couldn’t help it. He had been hooked, line and sinker by Misora, and he was too curious to stop now.

She was right. He wanted to know what it tasted like. What it felt like.

He wanted to hear the screams of the people they killed. He wanted to see the light leave their eyes. He wanted the LA Monster to bow at his feet.

Misora was the monster the media suggested that she was – worse, Beyond figured. He couldn’t afford to show any weakness around her, so he couldn’t show any sign of this little voice that he thought was quite possibly his conscience.

If it hadn’t been for Misora, he would have burned himself alive in that apartment, all to prove a point to L that he was better in some way. But thanks to her he had survived, and he would make the most of it.

He had found that this – letting go like this with her – was much more fun.

Still, that little voice whispered.

 

* * *

 

Misora found enough in the kitchen – its range limited, since this was only a holiday home – to prepare the lungs that she had harvested the day before. Beyond may benefit from something more classical for a first taste, but the lungs had already begun to degrade. They would have been best prepared completely fresh and were already past the point at which she would usually have preferred, but the limitations of being almost on the run had left them waiting too long.

The delicate meat would still make a reasonable Fuqi feipian, so long as she cooked it right away. This would allow it to cool while she prepared the fillet and its sauce.

At first, the screams from the banker provided perfect background music for her cooking, but soon enough this was broken and she had put on some background music, finding amongst the banker’s more modern collection a singular disc of classical music. Her steps were a waltz around the room as she prepared their meal, feeling more relaxed than she had in months.

She was patient, could tolerate months or years without harming anyone, but her kills always soothed her appetites. She had been tightly wound before her copycat had opened this opportunity for her; now, having soaked in the blood of her victims, she was at peace.

Beyond was a welcome relief. He was an interesting creature. Having seen his early kills, she knew he had shown some mercy to his victims by having them unconscious for his mutilations, but he didn’t seem to hold those same qualms now. He had let them go, inspired perhaps by what he was seeing from her. Perhaps he had always had it in him; certainly, she could see a lot of herself in the man behind the madness.

This meal would be as much of a test as anything. He hadn’t pretended to be all that comfortable with the idea of her preferred meat, so she would need to make the experience worthwhile for him. That wasn’t difficult; she did not doubt her cooking, and he was already tempted.

Beyond came inside not long after the screaming stopped, pausing only a moment to observe her cooking whilst she moved fluidly around the room, shooting him a warm smile. He grinned back at her, bare toothed and vicious, and left her to her preparations.

Misora shifted. Even during her shower, she had continued to follow Beyond’s earlier demand to keep herself ready for him, the toy only removed briefly whilst she cleaned and re-lubricated, perhaps a little too much for its purpose but keeping her dryer entrance slick. Beyond had been right, she had always intended to let him hurt her, to ensure that she would be convincing in court when L finally caught up to them. However, if she had really been bothered by that thought she could have found another way to do this, a different plan.

Though she wasn’t the sort to simply submit to anyone, she saw a lot of herself in Beyond, so it wouldn’t be as distasteful as it would be with another. Besides that, Misora was not only sadistic; she could appreciate pain, delight in it whether it was another’s or her own. Beyond was clever and creative enough that she was sure she would not be disappointed.

But first, they were to have their first date.

What else could she call it? She was domestic, cooking for him, setting the table. Lighting candles and presenting the meals.

If Monsters courted, this was their sweetest courtship.

Beyond joined her, shirtless, her name in kanji raw and red on his shoulder where he had rubbed the scabs free. Naomi poured him a glass of wine; the banker did at least have a fair selection in reds, amongst which she had found one that would match with the meal. It had probably cost the man a few hundred pounds when he bought it.

“Safe, or adventurous?” she asked him, indicating the two options. Beyond shrugged.

“It would be a shame to waste either,” he ran a finger tip around the edge of the serving plate with the fillet, sweeping up some of the sauce. Misora frowned at him; his manners could use some work.

“Please, have a seat,” she offered in place of a rebuke, encouraging him to take his place at the table whilst she artistically presented their food; the fillet first, then, to ease him in. “Unless you would like to check on our host first?”

“He has time,” Beyond told her idly, taking his place at the table. Misora joined him a moment later. “You’ve had that business card for a long while.”

“Yes,” Misora confirmed, though he did not say it as a question. “I find that it is easiest to avoid detection if the meat is allowed to mature on the bone.”

“What did he do, to have you keep his card for so long?” Beyond lifted his wine glass in a toast, touching to Misora’s. He took a sip of the deep red liquid, staining his lips like blood.

“The banker was discourteous. Discourtesy is unspeakably ugly to me.”

The explanation was self-explanatory to Misora, but to Beyond, who was still trying to figure out this Monster, he wanted to dig deeper.

“So, you thought about eating him?”

“When feasible,” Misora delicately cut a piece of the tender rare fillet and placed it in her mouth, the flavours exploding on her palate. She savoured it, swallowed, and wiped the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “One should eat the rude.”

“Free range rude,” B chuckled. He looked to think deeply about something. “L is a pig. He deserves to be somebody's bacon.”

“Depending on how this plan pans out, you may yet get chance for that,” Misora grinned. “Better than a sorry death all alone trying to be dominant over a pig.”

“Suicide seems like a valid solution to my problem,” Beyond shrugged. He had so far cut several pieces of the meat, but not put any of them to his lips. Had he been asked, he would not have been able to explain his hesitance. He was tempted, too far down this path to turn back now, and yet...

“How does that make you feel?”

“Alive,” Beyond admitted. “I've always found the idea of death comforting. The thought that my life could end at any moment frees me to fully appreciate the beauty, and art, and horror of everything this world has to offer.”

This plate, this meal, fulfilled all three of those characteristics. B speared one of the cut pieces of meat on his fork, lifting it to study. It looked delicious – perfectly cooked. He didn’t try to pretend it was beef or some other red meat; didn’t try to hide from what they were doing. He slipped the piece between his lips, indelicately sucking the sauce and the taste from the surface of the meat.

He had crossed the line, and now it didn’t matter how much further he went.

He bit the piece off his fork, chewing messily and swallowing noisily. Across the table, Misora glared at him. She handed him a napkin, her expression a reminder; she ate the rude, and his table manners were not exactly perfect. B didn’t use the crisp white cloth, setting it down beside his plate and continuing to eat messily, aggravating her.

“A death benefit?” Misora questioned.

“Upon taking his own life, Socrates offered a rooster to the god of healing, Asclepius, to pay his debt,” Beyond explained.

“What debt might that be?”

“To Socrates, death was not a defeat but a cure,” he told her simply. He took a sip of his wine, the flavours mingling on his tongue. “It was to be mine, too.”

“That would imply that there is something wrong with you,” Misora studied him. “You are not ill, Beyond. You’re free now.”

“Free of what? Humanity? Morality?” Beyond considered. Misora shook her head.

“The world misinterprets humanity,” she told him. “And morality is a construct of that confusion. The sheep are happiest when the wolf is kept at bay.”

Beyond watched as she collected the two plates, washing them and leaving them to dry.

“And we are the wolves?”

“We are something different,” Misora mused. “Something new.”

“Monsters.”

“Perhaps,” she allowed with a wry smile.

“Without morality.”

“I do not bother myself to understand morality,” Misora served the next plate; the fuqi feipian, made with the lung. “I have no interest in understanding sheep, only eating them.”

“The LA Monster wasn’t born,” Beyond mused. “In the beginning, what reason did you have to kill?”

“I had every reason to kill,” Misora smiled, reminiscent. She took a little of the lung, gathering the spices and the sauce with it. “They just had no reason to die. They never saw me coming unless I wanted them to see me coming. I could wave at a lady and smile, chew the fat with her in church, knowing I killed her husband. There is something beautiful about that ball of silence at a funeral, all those people around you, knowing that you made it happen.”

Beyond considered Misora, the monster of LA, the diminutive Japanese female and FBI agent. A mess of contradictions; a creation of a God of Death, if ever he had seen one. He wondered what a psychiatrist would think of this Monster, whether her abnormality could be quantified. Whether they should even be allowed to try.

“Insane isn't really black or white, is it?” he mused. “We're all pathological in our own ways. You choose the version of the truth that suits you best and pursue it pathologically. Everybody decides their own versions of the truth.”

“Then you do not agree?” Misora was still waiting for him to eat some of the lung; Beyond was hesitating. “You think me mad?”

“Yes,” Beyond confirmed. “But I do not think you should be defined by your maddest edges.”

Misora, impatient, offered a bite of her own meal from her fork to Beyond’s lips. He took it without hesitation, never breaking eye contact, his tongue curling around it and drawing it in.

“I am beginning to think you should not be defined at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of Hannibal quotes, as I noted when I stated writing this. Credit goes to Hannibal (TV) for all of those.  
> Those reading this who are Death Note fandom and don’t know the Hannibal fandom, the Hannibal TV show contains a whole lot of food porn – which is really conflicting because Hannibal’s cooking is meant to be people, but it looks really rather delicious. So, for Misora’s cooking; any recipes (not including human) taken from my own favourite recipes from my cooking folders, but I can’t resist giving you some links for vaguely what they would look like, photos credit to their owners of course and do not belong to me (I might make the meals again myself with less sinister meats and put up those pics if I’m so inclined in the future. Lung in particular can be hard to get, though);  
> http://www.chinesefoodfans.com/chinese-food-recipes/beef/fuqi-feipian/  
> http://www.foodandwine.com/recipes/roast-beef-tenderloin-with-morel-cream-sauce


	7. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not that kind of monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like this picture for this story, as I've mentioned before I am terrible at art so this isn't mine  
> https://ishimaru-miharu.deviantart.com/art/Another-Note-265177169

Misora stroked the perfectly made silk sheets of the bed, waiting for Beyond.

The man had left the house again, checking on the cooking banker. He had muttered something about three hours being up, so she supposed even if the man wasn’t dead yet, Beyond was going to end him. He would already be at least unconscious, so Misora left them to it.

It wasn’t as much fun if she couldn’t watch their biology fail, the awareness of life leaving their eyes.

Beyond knew he would have free rein to hurt her, and she had absolutely no interest in hiding how much that excited her, though she was not so keen on the idea of submitting. She needed to do this, a way to protect herself and gain some pleasure in the process, albeit tainted.

“Strip.”

Misora didn’t look round, didn’t acknowledge Beyond’s single word command. He had returned and was stood in the doorway, one foot on the frame, dirtying it with mud from the garden. He had not even removed his shoes. Misora was acutely aware of this and cringed internally at the pointless mess.

Beyond did not repeat himself, holding his ground but not advancing either.

Misora was patient; surely, more patient than him. She laid out on the bed, taking her book and starting to read.

Beyond stayed in the doorway, but reached into a pocket and pulled out a small remote control. Misora did not react, but cursed internally. How had he associated that with the toy he had her wear all day.

He flicked the switch, activating the beads. Misora instinctively clenched at the sudden sensation of movement within her, trying to keep the rest of her body still and relax into it, not to give him the satisfaction.

If he had turned the toy to a higher setting, it might actually have been easier to ignore. As it was, the slow and steady sensations were so much less than she needed, building anticipation without giving her enough. If it had been in her cunt it might have been enough; as it was she found it nearly impossible to ignore and remain still.

Beyond only moved to the bed when she finally closed her book and reached a hand beneath her skirt, stimulating herself.

He caught her wrist, pulling it away with a gentle grasp.

“I said, strip.”

“Make me,” Misora grinned up at him, bringing her other hand to stroke herself instead.

To her surprise and consternation, Beyond shrugged and walked away. In the doorway he paused, glancing over his shoulder.

“You’re the one who needs me, remember?”

Misora watched him leave, sitting up.

“Fuck.”

She could easily take her pleasure for herself, forget Beyond and potentially just harm herself to make sure there was damage for when they were caught, but that would be unlikely to convince anyone. L would point out the parts of her body she was unable to wound, the alignment of the marks that she made all within her own reach. A clever forensic examiner would note the same, and she would be fucked.

She enjoyed pain, was ready for Beyond to do as he wished to hurt her, but this submission, following his instructions and commands… this was not of a sort she had intended.

But he was right. She needed him; needed a fuck, after a whole day of being overstimulated. Needed the marks he would leave, to clear her name.

She got off the bed, growling low in her throat, and removed her clothing, placing it all in the wash basket. She was tempted to remove the toy from her ass, just to show that she would not follow all his commands, but stopped herself. She didn’t doubt that he would quite happily deny her if she disobeyed.

Discarding worthless pride in exchange for being able to complete her plan, and get her release, she moved into the living room where Beyond was waiting.

“You’re a worthless piece of shit,” she growled at him, straddling his hips where he sat, playing snake on his phone.

“That’s Sir worthless piece of shit,” Beyond smiled, continuing his game.

“I’ve stripped,” Misora pointed out.

“Have you?” Beyond didn’t look up from the phone. “I’ve got your high score.”

He had the nerve to sound more excited about the latter.

“Don’t make me hurt you,” Misora warned, covering the phone screen with her hand. It took a shockingly long time for the phone to make the bleeping noise that meant the game was lost, Beyond managing to predict the exact sequence needed to keep the snake alive.

“You can’t,” he sounded bored. “Now get off.”

“I’m trying to,” Misora growled, grinding against his thigh and leaving a wet patch on his baggy blue jeans.

Fast as a serpent, his hand struck her across the cheek.

“Don’t be obstinate, Naomi.”

Quick as a flash he had started a new game on the phone.

Misora froze, warring with the desire to kill him.

“When you’re ready,” Beyond seemed ignorant to her fury, “go to the bedroom and lay down.”

Misora left B’s lap, going to lounge on the sofa with her legs parted, idly stroking a finger around her clit, making sure that she was directly in B’s line of sight as he insisted on continuing to mess with his phone.

Beyond played nearly a dozen more games as Misora teased herself, bringing herself right to the edge of orgasm but never allowing herself relief; he would give it to her, give in to her eventually.

He set his phone aside, leaning back in the chair and crossing his hands behind his head. He watched her, but he almost looked… bored. It infuriated her; she slid two fingers into her core, hoping to elicit a reaction.

She got one, but not what she had desired. Beyond raised a single faint eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Stop.”

Misora felt only disgust with herself as she finally followed his instruction, holding her hand still.

“The bedroom,” he commanded, “lay down on the bed.”

This was the only way he would allow her to get what she needed. Not the sex; she was more than capable of pleasing herself, and she didn’t desire him so much that she would bend to his will for that. No, this was just about the case, her victory, clearing her name.

Misora complied.

Beyond followed steadily behind, waiting until she had artfully arranged herself on the bed and was watching him.

Beyond moved to her, arranging her so that she was laid flat on her back, legs stretched out straight, arms palm down on the bed.

“You will remain in this position until I say you can move,” Beyond instructed. “If you move, I will not hurt you.”

A greater threat than any pain he could have promised. Her clever copycat.

“I’ve been looking through your toys,” Beyond told her, tracing a fingernail very gently over her skin, barely leaving a scratch. The plug in her ass stopped its motion, deactivated by the remote in Beyond’s pocket. “You want me to make it convincing?”

“Yes,” Misora agreed, nodding.

“Then I will require you to remain completely still,” he told her, retrieving an electronic device from her bag. Misora resisted the temptation to lift her head from the pillow to see what it was. “The longer you obey, the more I will mark. Sound fair?”

“If I must,” Misora grumbled, prepared for the long haul.

“Good,” Beyond straddled her, still fully clothed. His jeans were itchy on her sensitised skin.

The device in his hand activated, giving off a distinctive hum. A tattoo machine. Misora raised a sculpted eyebrow.

“I’m sure you can do better than that,” she teased.

“Base coat,” Beyond grinned, and set to work.

Misora only had one tattoo; a name, one that she could never forget. Mischa. Her younger sister.

“Don’t cover up the one over my heart,” Misora demanded, her tone fierce and demanding. Beyond stopped, halfway through writing the angular marks that made up the Chinese equivalent of the letter B over the top of her sternum.

“Tell you what,” he bargained, grinning, “I will leave it alone, so long as you remain still – except to follow any commands I give you.”

“Alright,” Misora allowed, hating the vulnerability betrayed in her voice.

Beyond studied her curiously; there was a story there, perhaps the reason why the LA Monster had been created. He would learn that story, eventually, but now was not the time. He returned to his letters, scripting them across her skin, taking particular delight in covering her feet in little stylised feet; the ancient Egyptian letter ‘B’. The room was silent except for the hum of the machine.

“Here’s the thing with submission,” Beyond stroked over the newly made marks. “It’s only complete if you give it yourself. What happened yesterday? That wasn’t control, that was just force. You haven’t topped me yet, Misora.”

Misora closed her eyes, blocking out his voice and focusing on the nip of the needle, better than admitting that he was right.

From the base of her neck to her toes, Misora was marked with the letter B in a thousand different fonts and languages, avoiding her head and hands.

“Turn over,” he directed gently, allowing her room to do so. Misora turned, ink and blood marking the perfect silk sheets.

Beyond began to mark her again, but this time as he came closer to finishing he activated the toy in her ass, letting it do the work; a small pleasure, a small nip of pain – the perfect combination to have her ready for him.

He set the tattoo machine aside, spreading the welling drops of blood with his hand and painting the tan skin red.

He considered what to do with her next. His cock was hard, and he would have enjoyed making her take him into her mouth, but he did not think that wise. She was a cannibal after all.

Neither did he intend to hurt her further; not tonight. If she were hurt enough to need to rest, it would spoil his fun and also he would be doing exactly what she wanted; he would be giving her some control back.

He reached down and easily slid a finger into her cunt, which clenched around it. She was soaked, her own earlier teasing having prepared her perfectly. However, with the large toy in her ass she was too tight; he removed it, thinking to fuck her gently, just to frustrate her more.

Temptation overcame him as he removed the toy and she followed it with her ass, desperate to be filled. His fingers took its place, three insufficient to stretch as far, so he slid in a fourth, and considered.

“Have you ever been fisted, Misora?” he asked curiously, thrusting with his hand.

“No,” she admitted into the pillow. “Not yet.”

“Good answer,” Beyond giggled, removing his hand and stroking it back and front over her dripping cunt and along her wet thighs, her fluids coating it. He returned four fingers inside her, and then arranged the thumb with them, pushing in.

Misora was silent, but pressed back against his hand, open and relaxed.

His patience quickly waned, and he drew his hand out of her, turning her on to her back.

He held her gaze as he slid his cock into her welcoming heat, moving with a steady pace.

“More, Beyond,” Misora demanded, but he was not going to give her what she wanted. He sought his pleasure, ignoring her own.

He closed his eyes, to block out the sight of the blood on her skin, the Monster in her eyes.

He saw burned flesh and flames, and his eyes snapped open again.

He drew out of her, leaving them both unsatisfied.

“Beyond?” Misora asked him softly, stroking his back, his loose white shirt stained with her blood.

“Finish yourself off, and change the sheets,” he snapped, going through to the bathroom to shower, the blood running away down the drain but leaving him stained.

He laid awake long after she fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

L.

The letter on the screen sent a chill through Beyond, and he doubted himself for a second.

Only a second, because the sight of the banker, unconscious but alive and half burned, had cemented his resolve. That little whispering voice – his conscience, so long ignored, was screaming.

He knew what he had to do.

“It’s B,” he spoke quietly, so as not to wake Misora even though she was on the other side of the house.

The line was silent for a very long time, and Beyond wondered if the connection was false.

“B,” L’s voice synthesiser was absent. “This is… unexpected.”

“Liar,” Beyond smiled fondly. “Percent?”

“Ninety-eight,” L chuckled, but there was a hint of sadness there. “You are safe?”

“I feel… wounded,” Beyond spoke hesitantly.

“Ah,” L sighed. B pictured him curled in his chair in front of the computer, knees clutched to his chest. “The most terrifying thing can be a lucid moment.”

“It can,” Beyond allowed. “I… I know, what kind of crazy I am.”

“Yes,” L agreed.

“This isn’t that kind of crazy.”

“No.”

“You knew I would contact you,” Beyond accused. “You knew I would go with her, didn’t you?”

“There was a sixty percent probability,” L confirmed.

“And still you sent her,” Beyond sighed. “Do you understand what could have been?”

“You’re afraid,” L realised.

“Yes,”

“But not of her.”

“…No.” Beyond knew what was coming; the truth. L was always perceptive.

“If you don’t kill her, you’re afraid you’re going to become her.”

“Yes.”

The room fell silent, heavy with Beyond’s confession.

“The next time you have an instinct to help someone, maybe consider crushing them instead. It might save you a great deal of trouble.”

Beyond couldn’t help himself; a laugh escaped.

“We can catch her, B,” L told him. “We can bring her in – together.”

“How?”

“First, you need to tell me where you are.”

Beyond described their location precisely, and listened carefully to L’s plan.

“It seems too simple,” he commented dryly.

“She is your hostage,” he could picture L’s shrug. “Unless she wants to reveal herself, it will work.”

“You’re putting yourself in danger,” Beyond pointed out, reluctant.

“It is necessary,” L responded sharply. Softer, “Besides, I believe I may finally have a worthy successor.”

The screen went black. Beyond stared at it for a long time, then picked it up and threw it at the wall opposite.


	8. Origins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is winding towards its conclusion now... It was only ever meant to be 5/6 chapters, so it got a bit longer than planned (B tends to run away with me).  
> This chapter was always going to be a bit different. Short snippets of their lives over the course of several months; I'm not really happy with how it turned out, and I may go back and re-write, but I've gone over it a few times and I'm not sure how to spin it round so I'm putting it up.  
> Also; marmite.  
> It's a Hannibal AU. We expect to be thoroughly uncomfortable. love it or hate it again in this chapter - strong reactions is generally the goal with anything Hannibal so good or bad

They drove for two and a half hours, changing cars halfway through their journey.

Misora had been rather stiff that morning, skin crusted with scabs over her marks and tattoos. These loosened with her hot shower, allowing her free movement and with it, impatience. Bloodlust.

The LA Monster created her artwork in threes, and so far she had only been able to present one to the world. The fallen angel, the metaphor for Beyond.

“How about another date?” Beyond offered, wrapping his arms around her waist. He stroked over one of the B’s on her collar bone, frowning sadly. “I find I don’t like to see _you_ bleed.”

Misora had bought the act he sold, teasing him about his love for her, his devotion. But she had accepted the date.

He took her to a nice restaurant, the kind where a booking would usually be required even for lunch. There was just one table available, set up by L.

“Are you ready to order?” the waiter came across, interrupting their conversation. Misora opened her mouth to answer but was interrupted by her supposed date.

“My wife has special dietary requirements,” he told the waiter, glancing through the menu.

“Ah. Well perhaps I can help you to select a more suitable dish? Would it perhaps be an allergy, or religious reasons?”

“No, we are not particularly religious,” he grinned at Misora. “Although, she prefers humanely sourced ingredients.”

Misora rolled her eyes at the bad pun.

“Oh? So, fair trade organic stuff, right? I’m not sure what we’ve got that’s like that, can you wait whilst I go check?”

“By all means,” Beyond waved him away.

“Cannibal puns?” Misora raised an eyebrow. “You are more comfortable with what you are, then?”

“We,” Beyond corrected, raising his glass.

A chair was noisily pulled up beside him and a carbon copy of Beyond without his Ryuzaki mask crouched on it at their table.

“Mind if I join?” L asked, taking Misora’s glass and drinking from it.

“Not at all,” Beyond grinned, “It’s always since to have an old friend for dinner.”

Misora stilled in her chair, then ran her hand along the base of the table. Finding no recording devices, she checked the chair and then, with a sinister grin, reached out and pushed L back in the chair, kissing him and stroking her hands along his chest.

L was trapped by the wood of the chair; he couldn’t pull back, had to allow her ungentle treatment as she drew blood from his lip with her teeth, her hands running over every inch of his skin.

She drew back with four recording devices in her hands.

Beyond glanced at L, spotting the detective’s consternation.

“You thought I would stop at three,” Misora smirked, dropping the devices one by one into her wine. “Most people would.”

“No matter,” L shrugged. “It’s over.”

“You think so?” Misora was smiling, meeting B’s eyes through her eyelashes. “Even if you manage to leave here alive, do you think the courts would believe the testimony of the vicious serial killer who kidnapped and raped me?”

“I believe they will see reason. You cannot hide the truth forever,” L picked up the wine glass, contaminated by the recording devices, and took another sip anyway.

“And how do you plan to prove it?”

“Whether I have enough yet for a court yet is dubious, but I certainly have enough to ensure a period of psychiatric assessment…”

Misora released a tinkling laugh.

“You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalysed.”

“I don’t like you now.”

“Fair,” Misora glanced to Beyond. “To destroy me, you would destroy our mutual friend?”

“You’re not my friend,” Beyond interrupted. “The light from friendship won’t reach us for a million years. That’s how far from friendship we are.”

Misora considered him, looking disappointed.

“And I imagine it’s easier to believe I am responsible for those murders than it is to accept that you are?”

“Sure is.”

“You observed, B,” she grinned. “You participated. And you took one of your own. You see how magnificent you are. Did he who made the Lamb make thee?”

“Is that your religion, Misora?”

“Perhaps,” she considered. “Killing must feel good to God, too. He does it all the time, and are we not created in his image?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

Misora laughed. “God's terrific. He dropped a church roof on 34 of his worshipers last Wednesday night in Texas, while they sang a hymn.”

“Did God feel good about that?”

“He felt powerful.”

“You figure yourself a God,” L noted aloud.

“No,” Misora corrected. “I wouldn't have any fun being God. Defying God, that's my idea of a good time.”

“Then you paint yourself as the Devil?”

“Only if you figure yourself as God,” Misora tilted her head, considering. Something sparked in her eyes. “You seem… familiar.”

Beyond puzzled at that. Of course, L seemed familiar; B was his mirror, in appearance at least.

“So, shall we make a scene, or do you intend to come quietly?” L asked, considering Misora. His tone had changed; there was a nervousness there that was not present before.

“Oh, perhaps not quietly,” Misora grinned. “Bring in your officers, Lawliet.”

As soon as she had said it, there was an influx; dozens of police, there on L’s word, come to take her away.

Beyond would give credit to her acting skills. As soon as the officers arrived, Misora fled to them. Her histrionic wailing and eagerness to surrender to them – to their protection – disrupting any equilibrium and breaking the weaker willed of the officers, though they were briefed extensively on what to expect from her.

“She won’t hurt them,” Beyond assured L. “This is a part of her game.”

“I know,” L nodded.

“So, what happens now?”

“Now, we have to get a conviction,” L looked concerned. He took another sip of the wine, setting the glass down firmly. “That’s bloody disgusting.”

“You have very different tastes,” Beyond pushed the glass away, taking a lollipop out of his pocket and offering it to the detective, who took it with a smile. “Don’t deny that you knew what I meant. You’ve caught the LABB killer.”

“We didn't catch you, you surrendered.”

“Same difference.

“We have to arrest you,” L told him, around the lollipop. “You killed three people, B.”

“More than that, now,”

“You could leave,” L’s comment blindsided Beyond. “Whilst the officers are distracted. She’s putting on quite the performance.”

Beyond glanced at Misora where she was weeping openly into an officer’s shoulder, a police jacket wrapped around her and holding tightly with arms around the neck of one of the men.

“No,” Beyond thought back, to the LABB case, to the others who died beneath his hand. The excitement he had felt at first; the rapid delight. “I want you to know exactly where I am, and where you can always find me. Even if it means my execution.”

“Enough people have died,” L sighed.

“You haven’t,” Beyond teased, and despite it all they were still able to laugh together. “Was it good to see me?”

“Good? No,” L reached out his hands. Beyond reached out as well, but before he could take the detective’s they drew back, snapping handcuffs around his wrists. “Let’s get you home.”

 

* * *

 

The legal system moved slowly. L could solve cases, but his involvement with a case did nothing to speed the wheels of the courts. At least, not without a full confession from the accused.

And Misora was not the type to confess to anything.

L spent his time alternately prodding her, perhaps hoping to make her say something incriminating, and visiting with Beyond.

“I've interviewed enough serial killers to know one when I see one. I see it every time I look at you,” he would remind her when she would ask some small thing about her appearance.

The closest she ever came to a confession, however, was abrupt and unexpected.

“Why me, L?” she asked softly, on one of the days he thought she was closest to breaking. “What on all the Earth could make you think I was the Monster?”

“I had to draw a conclusion based on what I glimpsed through the stitching of the person suit that you wear. And the conclusion I've drawn is that you are dangerous,” L told her simply. “I can only hope that others will see it too.”

“They cannot see what is not there.”

L would leave Misora feeling more frustrated than usual and in need of sugar.

He kept a tray of treats outside of her cell for just this purpose, but he would not eat alone.

As he devoured a strawberry cake and Beyond picked at a jar of strawberry jam with a spoon – no longer enjoying the sensation of it on his fingers – he would voice his thoughts on how to prove the case.

“I can abide the thought of Naomi being tortured,” Beyond laughed at him when he was particularly sore. “Not necessarily to death. I say she has it coming. Although…”

“Yes?”

“I think she might enjoy it.”

It was a problem. The shutter vision of the other investigators, the willingness of the court system to overlook when faced with what looked to be a defenseless female.

Her act was impeccable, convincing psychiatrist after psychiatrist until L felt like he was screaming into a storm, or trying to turn the sea.

The court system simply wouldn’t try Misora for the murders. They described her as wounded, as broken. They sent her to a psychiatric hospital to be assessed for effects of trauma and PTSD, and a fifty-three-page report described an innocent woman, a victim.

“Have you seen this report, Beyond?” L turned the pages, reviewing them for a fourth time, trying to find anything he could use to show a hint of her true nature. “She likes music, she likes wine, she likes food, and she likes you.”

“It says she hates me,”

“To her, I suspect that they are the same thing.”

Beyond set aside his dinner tray, the meat left untouched. He reviewed the pages again, and cast them across the room, raining to the floor.

“Is Naomi IN LOVE with me?”

“Could she daily feel a stab of hunger for you, and find nourishment at the very sight of you? Yes.” L watched his reaction carefully. “But do you still ache for her?”

“No.” Never again.

“Then could you pretend to?” L asked him callously. “It might make the difference. She might slip, with you. It might prove the case.”

“You know she’s too intelligent to fall for that,” Beyond scowled at him. “No, you’re going to have to go back. The investigation files are so empty, surely there must be something, some footage from the hotel, the restaurant, anything?”

One day L was able to visit with news. Whilst Misora’s case continued to drag on, Beyond’s had been settled.

“You will spend an indeterminate period of time in a psychiatric hospital,” L told him over a shared plate of strawberry tarts.

“The rest of my life, you mean,” Beyond smiled wryly, accepting the verdict.

“No,” L spoke around his most recent mouthful. “After a few years, the doctors will declare you sane, and you will join me in my investigations.”

Beyond was stunned. “You would keep me? As your successor?”

“As my equal.”

“And you had to unmake me, to make me worthy?” Beyond could not understand.

“To make you like me.”

Beyond was silent, considering. A stray thought came back to him, a question he had been meaning to ask.

“How did she know your name?” he wondered. “When we caught her, she recognised you.”

“Did Wammy ever tell you, how I came to be at Wammy's? How I became an orphan?”

“No.” Not specifically anyway. More than one of the children at Wammy’s had an extremely traumatic background; it went hand in hand with the type of genius Wammy sought.

“I was unmade, too,” L confessed vaguely. “I have had longer to make myself again.”

“So, you would create me in your own image?” He could not be surprised; it was the goal of Wammy’s to create the next L. However, this seemed a drastic route to take. True, it had taught him compassion, taught him that not everything was about victory and taught him how it felt, to be killer and victim. But were there not better ways?

“Yes.”

If he was to be remade, there were worse ways.

“Then at least it is a better image, I think, than hers.”

There was a long silence whilst L licked the filling from the centre of a strawberry tart and set the pastry back on the tray.

“…we were cut from the same cloth.”

“You and I?”

“Misora and I.” L sighed, turning another of the tarts over between his fingers.

“How do you mean?”

“You wanted to know how she knew my name,” L reminded. “She told you about Mischa?”

“The name over her heart,” Beyond recalled the tattoo, the only piece of skin that Misora had not wanted him to distort. The only thing that had made her show any genuine vulnerability.

“She keeps her close?” L sounded surprised; the tart crushed between two pinching fingers.

“Always,” he promised, spying the hopefulness in L’s eyes. “But she told me nothing.”

“There were four of us, at first,” L began. He stared at the crushed tart, crumbling it between his fingers. “Children of assassins, kept in a safehouse...”

Beyond saw L’s discomfort, felt the pain in his words.

“You don’t have to tell me this,” he backtracked quickly. “Your secrets are yours to keep.”

But L’s eyes had already glazed; he was no longer in that moment, revisiting the memory. A flashback.

“We were abandoned, and we were alone,” he sounded childlike. “We were dying. Our families had not returned for weeks. We had water on tap, but our food had run out, there were no windows, and we couldn’t break the door. Mischa... she was the youngest, the smallest. Misora's sister. She died first.”

The silence dragged on.

“And that made Misora into what she is now?”

“No,” L hesitated. He set down the crumbs of the jam tart, curling his knees to his chest and hugging them tightly; not his thinking pose. “When he spoke again, his tone was pleading. “We were starving, B. All of us. It was another month before we were found.”

Beyond stared at the detective, his heart breaking.

“How old were you?”

“I was five. Misora just turned four... Mischa, two and a half.”

“And the fourth?”

“He survived, too, for a while. He killed himself I think, in the end. He was the oldest. He was the one who... prepared the meals.”

Beyond took in a breath. What on earth could even he say, in response to that? “L...”

“It was a long time ago...”

“L,” Beyond demanded more firmly, reaching out between the bars of his cell. He held his palms upwards, silently offering.

Slowly, L reached out and took them.

“It’s why I do what I do, and now you know how it feels. To be a monster as well.”

 

* * *

 

Once a week at the hospital, L would come visit him. They would curl up together on the couch in front of the television set.

They understood one another too perfectly;

They did not need to speak.


	9. Verdict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misoras's court case is concluded; another story begins

The verdict L had expected had come through that morning; not guilty. Naomi Misora would walk, but she would not be free. There would always be an eye on her, a suspicion that would mean her days as a killer were over.

Beyond was as perceptive as ever, when L gave him the news.

“You meant for her to escape this, didn’t you?” he did not look to be distressed, though L had made sure several of the psychiatric nurses were at the ready outside the room whilst he broke the news, anxiolytics prepared for administration if required.

“I have done exactly what I set out to do,” L admitted. The case would have been solved, could have been proven beyond all reasonable doubt, but he had kept back those pieces of evidence that would be needed to prove the case outright.

“Is this not dangerous?” Beyond scowled at him. Were it not for his red eyes, the nurses outside could not have convinced themselves that the two were not speaking into a mirror.

“Misora is muzzled, she cannot kill again. Not without revealing herself,” L shrugged. “She _will not_ kill again. She does not have to go to prison for that to be true.”

“You want it to be true.”

“Yes,” L admitted. “But I have put plans in place. If she so much as sets a toe out of line, I shall know about it.”

Watari had taken L from the orphanage he had ended up in, had seen the scars in his psyche and had helped to heal them. Misora had been left in an unfriendly system for many years after, and although she was eventually adopted into money, there was no love in that household and even had there been, some scars ran too deep. L would have preferred to ensure that she was sent to psychiatric hospital for the rest of her life but there was no singular name for her kind of madness, no label that could be pinned to her file, and so it was a question whether she would be executed or released.

She would no longer be allowed to work with the FBI. Her supposed kidnap by Beyond Birthday, the LABB killer, and the acted trauma she displayed were enough to earn her an honourable discharge with early retirement and a fair pay off to boot. In exchange, she had no choice but to agree to additional supports – people who would keep an eye on her around the clock for her own safety. Her boyfriend Raye Pember would also be assigned to monitor her. Since he was rather blind to her faults, knowing her only as her little woman persona, he would not be the only one but she would never be permitted to be left alone. In addition to the human monitoring, L had also arranged electronic tracking, his word as the world’s greatest detective enough to convince the judge that this would be a necessity.

She would have a life; not the life she would want, but a life all the same. L was determined to give her this chance.

He couldn’t give her a Watari, so she would have to go it alone.

L would have explained all of this to Beyond and more if it were required, but his mirror understood L as easily as he breathed. Still, L was concerned what would happen when he left the hospital ward that day. Beyond was doing well, the psychiatrists were even speaking of time out of the ward, although only with ankle tags and in the company of L and staff. If he turned anger and frustration on the staff, patients or ward environment it would be a huge set back and would delay L’s plans to involve Beyond in his investigations.

He had sent Misora after Beyond knowing exactly what would happen. Knowing the path Beyond had chosen, there were few possible outcomes that would have been positive. When it came down to it, he had a choice between Beyond being dead or coming back to himself through the cruellest possible path.

“Can you forgive me?” L asked him, because he was quite sure that there was at least a time when Beyond would have preferred death.

“Forgiveness is too great and difficult for one person. It requires two. A betrayer and a betrayed,” Beyond replied carefully, considering L. Of course; Beyond had hardly been blameless. He had lit the fire, literally as well as metaphorically. He was a killer, would have been a killer with or without Misora.

“Which one are you?”

“I’m vague on those details,” Beyond sat back from his crouch, the first time his posture had not mimicked L’s in the whole visit. A wry smile spread on his lips as the nurse closed to the door jolted as he saw the movement, the stoic man momentarily panicking and tightening his grip on the needle and syringe.

“Betrayal and forgiveness are best seen as something akin to falling in love,” L offered in return, expressionless exterior hiding his racing heart.

Beyond nodded, pushing his strawberry jam jar across the table towards L with his foot. Their toes brushed briefly. “You cannot control with respect to whom you fall in love.”

* * *

 

Beyond had plenty of notice that this day was coming.

When Misora had petitioned to the hospital to be permitted a visitor permit, there had been plenty of reason to decline. However, when her own psychiatrist wrote to the hospital board to tell them that he believed seeing Beyond again, powerless against her, would be a positive healing experience for Naomi Misora, the hospital had approached L for their opinion.

L had asked Beyond, and several weeks of paperwork later, there she stood on the other side of a glass partition, her person suit firmly in place until her escort left them alone.

The frightened but determined looking expression twisted into something far crueller as Misora straightened, as tall as Beyond in her seven-inch stiletto heels.

“Rue Ryuzaki… Beyond Birthday,” Beyond picked up on the undertone in her voice, her frustration that even in this hospital she had not discovered his real name. “How long has it been?”

“Not long enough, Monster,” Beyond spat the words, not bothering to hide his distaste for her. Misora’s tinkling laugh seemed to fill the small space, echoing as if to reveal the monster behind the otherwise sweet sound.

“Do you mean to threaten me with that name? If so, it shall not work,” Misora strode closer to the partition. “You are a patient in a psychiatric hospital, Beyond, they cannot monitor you with cameras and tapes here. In fact, this may be the only place that I can speak freely for some time, thanks to you.”

“Thanks to L,” Beyond grinned, glad that Misora was aware that she was being watched and that it pained her.

“No,” Misora tapped her stiletto on the concrete, “This is your doing.”

“How so?”

“I gave you a rare gift, and you didn’t want it. Now you deny me my life.”

Beyond clenched hands into fists but managed to keep the venom out of his voice. “Not your life. You still breathe.”

“My freedom, then, you would take that from me,” Misora accused. “If you and your detective friend cannot confine me to a prison cell you will force me to live as Misora the poor, traumatised victim for the rest of my days.”

Beyond’s lips curled into a smile. “Perhaps you will grow to enjoy it.”

Misora snarled. “You cannot think that you can truly change me the way I changed you?”

She would try to claim power, superiority over him even then, even when she was so securely bound into this new life L had arranged for her. Perhaps she had indeed changed him, but not in the way that she intended.

“I already did,” Beyond replied simply instead, considering Misora’s new role as the weak, vulnerable fool she had used to save her life. He recalled fondly the image of her laid still on the bed, allowing him to engrave his letter into her. “You have shown that you are entirely capable of _submitting_ to your fate.”

“Not willingly,” Misora denied.

_“Entirely_ willingly,” Beyond laughed. “And it suits you. Did you show them? My marks on your skin?”

“An alibi, a part of the case,” Misora bit. “Nothing more.”

“ _My_ claim over _you_. You will carry them with you, Monster, and they will always serve to remind you of the day that you were beaten.”

“And if I choose to remember instead the sight of blood on your skin?”

“You can try, if you like, but it will not work,” Beyond knew too well what trying to control the unconscious images and associations of his mind could summon up. Misora may be a monster, but she was still at least a little human. “Those marks are mine, and I would have them remind you of the best parts of me.”

“You’re shedding the best parts of you under layers of elixir and sedative.”

“And fewer of those by the day, now,” Beyond reminded.

“Ah yes, you are a tamed man. And you will be out soon too, I think?”

“L tells me as much.” Soon was a relative term. Beyond was sure he would have many more months under this roof, but to tell Misora that would remove something else he could annoy her with.

“You will go with him? Travel the world, solve cases?” Misora sounded judgemental.

“Yes.”

“His pet.” She raised a sculpted eyebrow.

“His equal.”

Her head tilted slightly as she considered him. “His partner?”

“Perhaps,” Beyond allowed, shrugging his shoulders.

“That could have been us, once.”

Beyond laughed. “Naomi Misora, I am not going to miss you. I am not going to find you. I am not going to look for you. I don’t want to know where you are or what you do. I don’t want to think about you anymore.”

“And yet you do,” she did not resist reminding him. “I am in your fantasies.”

“You think so?”

“You fantasize about how you would kill me,” she saw it in his eyes. “Tell me, how would you do it?”

Beyond should not be tempted, should resist this, but thousands of scenarios had crossed his mind over the year of his confinement so far. “With my bare hands.”

“I have similar fantasies for you.”

“You may make a meal of me yet, Naomi,” Beyond agreed, “But not today. We will meet again?”

“I hope so.”

* * *

 

Time passed strangely in the hospital, days stretching to feel like months and then whole weeks going by in the blink of an eye.

“Your tribunal is next month,” L sat on the sofa beside him, deductive crouch and investigation paperwork discarded in favour of their usual quiet comfort, L leaned into Beyond’s side, head resting on his shoulder. Beyond nearly started at the break in the peace.

“I am aware,” he murmured into the detective’s hair.

“I have left a statement, in favour of your release,” L told him, taking a folded piece of paper from his pocket. Beyond shook it open; despite being folded into a tiny square with creases all over, it appeared to be a very official document detailing the opinion of L in the case.

“You will not be here?” Beyond’s brow furrowed.

“No.”

“A case?” he glanced at the files; there was nothing in that stack important enough that L would need to travel. There must be something else, something larger that L was working on without him.

“Yes,” L pressed his cheek more securely into Beyond’s shoulder, long fingers curling tighter around his arm. “Perhaps the most difficult case of my career.”

“Hey,” Beyond huffed. “I’m insulted.”

“I will want you with me.”

“Then, I suppose you are forgiven,” Beyond allowed.

“But, Beyond…”

L uncurled from his side, sitting separately and taking up his deductive crouch.

“Yes?”

“The tribunal papers… the statement from the psychiatrists?”

“Ah,” Beyond sighed heavily. He knew L would find out eventually; was prepared for this.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” L sounded concerned rather than upset. “What contact have you had with her?”

“She sends me greetings cards on holidays and a birthday card on the anniversary of the day we met. She always includes a recipe.”

“Do you ever write back?” L asked. Beyond knew there would be no point denying it; if he tried to lie, L would see it and know anyway. The silence continued for several moments before L sighed and settled back into his side, fingers curling in Beyond’s hair. “If she does end up eating you, Beyond, you’d have it coming.”


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A monster falls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pause here. I have posted chapter 9 and the epilogue at the same time; best go back a chapter if you haven't read 9 yet

The task force headquarters had been quiet all day, the great detective L seeming even more distracted than usual. Only Watari knew that day was the date of the postponed hearing, the date that would decide if Beyond could be released to join them in Japan.

L was drawn out of his thoughts by one of the investigators. “There’s someone from the tip line who has information for us.”

“Fine, then give him the number for line five and ask him to have the informant call that line instead. It’ll be safer that way.”

L took the call, curious.

“…Raye Pember’s fiancée, Naomi Misora.”

L would never forget that name. He stilled, his wide eyes unblinking. So, this was where she had ended up. Misora Massacre.

“I know her,” L told them, covering his reaction and looking at the photo provided to him on the computer screen. It was of course the same Naomi, from her days in the FBI. “She worked under me, on the LA BB murder case…”

“Well, apparently she’s been missing since the day after her fiancée died.”

L could understand that. Misora would see her opportunity, would take the chance to go free, except for the implanted tracking device he had convinced the government would be less obvious and have less effect on her life than her ankle monitor. L quickly checked the location on his phone and found it had spent the last days, since one day after the death of her fiancée, right in the centre of a river, initially still and then in more recent days following it down toward the sea. From the current temperatures and weather conditions L calculated the time it would take for a body to surface and begin to float with the current; it fit.

“I’m sure anyone in that situation would be depressed… was it, suicide?” Matsuda speculated.

“No,” L determined. “The Naomi Misora I knew was strong. Not to mention she was also an excellent FBI agent.”

And a psychopathic serial killer that would not value the life of her fiancée; she was too proud, and besides, Raye Pember and her relationship with him had always been a front, part of her human suit.

“If anything, it’s more likely that she would be trying to catch Kira.”

_Defying God, that's my idea of a good time_. And so far in this case, L had already realised that Kira had delusions of Godhood.

“Anyone can commit suicide, Ryuzaki,” Matsuda argued ignorantly.

“You did not know her,” L considered the tracking dot; Kira could kill with a heart attack, but perhaps Misora had got too close. “No, this is Kira’s doing.”

And if Kira had been able to kill Naomi Misora, Misora Massacre, the LA Monster…

What hope did they have of ever defeating Kira?

This was going to be a challenge the likes of which L had never faced before.

That was the moment when he knew that he would not survive this case.

He contacted the hospital in England and requested that the tribunal be postponed until he was back in the country. He would do all that he could to keep Beyond safe.


End file.
